The Haunting Of Helen By Cara Swann [� 2000 by
Cara Swann; all rights reserved]

Synopsis: Set during the Gulf War, the editor of an atheist
publication finds her pragmatic philosophy tested when she
meets a mysterious man and experiences supernatural
phenomenon surrounding him. By the time she learns this man
supposedly died years ago, her life has taken a strange detour
into the unknown realms of a parallel universe. 25,000
words/150 pages [Rating: General]

Reader Response to: [email protected]
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                  Chapter One


Helen was exhausted. The long trip from Birmingham had worn
her out, and as darkness approached, she felt the chill of late
January in the bleak surroundings. Although the monolithic
National Forest was graced with plentiful rich green conifers,
the oaks, maples and other hardwood trees stretched thin,
barren limbs to the metallic skyline, ridging high hilltops,
almost touching the leaden underbelly of clouds.

She felt so out-of-place in the rural Alabama countryside,
having passed the modest-size county seat twenty miles back
along the highway. As she drove on toward her destination at
the remotely isolated house a friend had lent her, Helen had a
sudden uncanny prickle along her spine, utterly unlike her
usual, pragmatic self. She dismissed the feeling, preferring
instead to concentrate on the two-lane serpentine highway
winding through forested mountains.

It was quickly growing darker, and the gloomy twilight brought
Helen a lonely feeling. And with it came a brief pang of regret;
Curtis Mann was no longer in her life, and she had to accept
that reality. In fact, as soon as the Persian Gulf crisis had
dominated news, Curtis managed to wrangle an assignment to
Saudi Arabia for CNN. Later, she'd sat transfixed before the
TV as he reported on the outbreak of war, the advent of 1991
a violent prelude to what might transpire as President Saddam
Hussein of Iraq held the world hostage by his ruthless tactics.

Helen had watched as Curtis reported the latest scud attack
from atop buildings of Dhahran...and she'd held her breath,
unbelievably dismayed at his perilous situation.

But then, Curtis was an outstanding network reporter, a keen
observer of national and international catastrophes...and,
regretfully, an unfaithful husband. At least, that is what Helen
had learned through two years of pain, frustration and
eventual divorce, leaving her with endless hurt and memories.

Putting the past firmly aside, Helen peered into the distance,
seeing a turnoff approximately where she figured her
destination should lead. She pulled over, stopped and sat
staring at the narrow graveled road -- no sign, nothing to
indicate this was the right direction. But Jordan had told her
it would he exactly twenty-one miles from the county seat, and
her mileage was on the dot.

She started down the road, flicking on her headlights; the
spiraling conifer limbs scraped the car, and she saw a post
ahead, printed with the words: CIDER MOUNTAIN. Relieved
she'd found her mark, she picked up speed and sighed, watching
the highway begin a sharp ascent into the snaky passages
winding around the mountainside. She drove slowly, careful of
the steep incline and hairpin curves. Her new Cadillac Allante
took the road well, easily climbing treacherous terrain.

Just as she rounded a bend, her attention turned to a deep
gorge on the left. Below her she could see a ramshackle old
house with rusted tin roof, faded ash-colored planks, some
gaping windows, one or two boarded-up, a warped rock
chimney.

But what caught her eye was a man burning brush behind the
structure: he had a full beard, wore jeans and plaid shirt,
seemed oblivious to anything, staring off dreamily into the
forested hillsides. She wondered who lived there? Jordan had
said Cider Mountain was deserted, isolated; and that was what
she sought here, so the obvious discovery of another person
living nearby was disturbing. Privacy, her greatest necessity,
was in jeopardy.

Helen decided to ignore the man. She drove ahead,
concentrating on the road until rounding a last curve where she
glimpsed the cottage nestled into the steep backdrop of
hillsides. She sighed deeply, tired and eager to get into the
place, rest and exercise her aching cramped muscles. Parking in
front of the house, she saw the cottage was as lovely as Jordan
had promised. It was an interesting structure, sloping tin roof,
spacious front porch with a railing along it, the grayish planks
built from wormy chestnut wood indigenous to the area, lending
a weathered appearance. Rattan rockers were turned up
against the wall, a brass knocker visible on the rough wooden
door. She sat there, entranced with the rustic retreat; it was
appealing and exuded warmth, welcoming her almost.

Without delay, she jumped out and unlocked the trunk, took out
a suitcase, bag of groceries and headed up the inlaid stone
walkway, noticing fieldstone chimneys at either end of the
house which would mean cozy fires for the chilly nights.

She took the doorkey out of her purse, jostling the groceries,
putting down the suitcase and finally pushing open the door. It
was dark, so she stumbled around, searching for a light switch,
but settled for a nearby lamp.

A golden glow softly illuminated the antique furniture, which
created an old-fashioned atmosphere she admired. Helen
grabbed the suitcase, went through the spacious open-beamed
room into a small kitchenette to the left, found a light switch
and flicked it on.

A table was in the center of the tiny room, and she put the
sack down, looked around with appreciation -- everything had
been meticulously refurbished yet modernized to perfection.
She thought it delightful, and surveyed the punched-tin
chandelier, two-plank oak table, straw-bottomed ladderback
chairs, a braided rug on the polished wood floors; the
microwave, fridge, stove and compact cabinets were
unobtrusive, cleverly disguised by the decor.

A huge fieldstone fireplace dominated the broad open-beamed
room she'd just walked through, with over-stuffed sofa,
armchairs and personal touches of comfort like big soft
pillows, handmade patchwork quilts draped over wooden
rockers, the gingham material design echoed in curtains,
cushions and objects throughout the house.

She walked slowly through the interior, noting it was basically
an open expanse, yet having a small kitchenette on the left, and
a significant-sized bedroom on the right, where she tossed
down her suitcase. Another fieldstone fireplace lent charm to
the bedroom, where a shiny brass bed was made up with a
colorful patchwork quilt; she sank down into the softness,
closing her eyes, exhausted.

Helen saw Curtis's face before her, the soft brown eyes, the
laughing smile that somehow managed to be whimsical, his
buoyant optimism, the husky voice saying words filled with
emotion. He was such an open, verbally expressive man,
whatever he thought or felt was immediately registered on that
handsome, boyish face...so utterly contrasted by her reticent
nature, her aloof and distrustful practical orientation, a
contrast that often spawned arguments and heated
confrontations. She, always a realist; he, always the idealistic
dreamer. Although he was an accomplished reporter, he still
had that little-boy charisma...the innocent, trusting
appearance, which perhaps explained his extraordinary success
in getting factual hard news. Everyone trusted him implicitly,
confided in him.  Everyone but her, because he continuously
accused her of being cold, emotionally distant.

She grimaced, remembering his blunt, hurtful insights. Yes,
maybe she was emotionally withdrawn, maybe she was a brutal
realist -- but it was due to her utilitarian upbringing. The only
child of atheist parents, indoctrinated into scientific scrutiny
and skepticism through her surgeon father, her factual writer
mother...how could she be anything less than their assiduous,
reserved daughter?

She sat up, looked through the doorway into the golden room
beyond her and dismissed the idle thoughts about her past
disappointments. The cold was now touching her, and although
there was a fireplace in the bedroom, she went to look at the
one in the den, saw wood stacked beside it, and built a fire; the
blaze caught, and began smoking, then flaring into brilliance.

She made some hot cocoa, sat on the sofa and wrapped up in the
patchwork quilt, glad for the warmth and comfort of Jordan's
house. He had lent it gladly; her editor and mentor, Jordon
Porter was fifty, seemingly attracted to her...but she'd
discouraged his advances. He was married, and that to her
constituted an impossible barrier; but she had been grateful
for the loan of the house, a retreat where she could work on
her book.

Her career had been extremely fortuitous; she was an
associate editor with an atheist magazine, THE REALIST, and
in the five years since she went to work as a fledgling writer,
the magazine had grown in circulation. Initially, when she got
the position right of college, at age 22, her parents were the
only ones who thought it had potential; Birmingham, Alabama
was the last place anyone expected an atheist publication could
establish a base. But in the successive years, her investigative
pieces on the availability, or lack thereof, for atheist material
in the South, and the continuing series she wrote on separation
of church and state constitutionally, had garnered national
readership. She was vaguely known, but if this book, a
compilation of her past articles and new, fresh research, did as
well as Jordan thought, she'd soon be a household name.

It was, she admitted, a dream her parents had initially
inspired, but now her own hopes rested on it as well. Helen
wanted to spread atheism, non-theistic goals; and expand the
knowledge of how churches, not paying income tax, exacted a
sizable cut from the average citizen's paycheck. The
corruption of religious leaders and organizations was a
growing, widely publicized problem. She wanted to bring to
light the whole spectrum of what that entailed, and show that
mankind could be civil, caring, compassionate yet atheist-
orientated, giving their intellect primary importance over
emotionalism and wildly ridiculous "spiritual/emotional"
displays. Yes, she had an important goal -- to write such a book
-- and that was why she had sought this secluded house.

Sitting before the firelight, Helen felt content; she began to
get drowsy, and decided to wait until tomorrow morning to
bring in her small word processor. She finally retired to the
bedroom, unpacked her gown, took a quick shower and slipped
into the bed, drifting off to sleep.

                     End Chapter One

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Chapter Two


Dazzling morning sunlight pierced Helen's eyes as she came
awake with a start. Something seemed to have brushed her
face, tingling her skin...a prickly sensation that had brought
her to a shuddering wakefulness. She sat up, blinking rapidly in
the sunlight streaming through open window curtains; her eyes
searched the bedroom, futilely seeking a real presence. Silly,
she realized, beginning to comprehend she'd had an unsettling
dream that had rudely launched her awake.

A gingham valence bordered the square-cut window, curtains
hanging on either side.  She got up, pushing off the quilt and
going to stare outside. It was brightly beckoning sunshine out
there, the deeply wooded thicket shadowed by a mountain
behind the hillside, probably Cider Mountain for which the
hilltop was named.

Sunlight gleamed on the windowpanes, throwing back a false
image of Helen; she  studied herself critically. At twenty-eight
she looked relatively younger -- short, crinkle-waved hair, only
chin-length to emphasize her triangular face, a sharp chin and
penetrating brown-black eyes everyone told her were intense.
In fact, her whole demeanor suggested intensity...petite,
slender body, frenetic and agile, always gesturing with her tiny
hands (which she tried to calm by wearing clothing with big
pockets to contain her hands) she was constantly in motion.
Biting her narrow upper lip, wishing she had the pouty sexy
look so popular these days, instead of only a full bottom lip
and pencil-thin upper lip, she wistfully recalled Curtis's
nickname for her --Cricket.

Stupid to let that bring a painful tug at her heart after the
past year without him; he was no longer part of her life and it
disgusted her to be caught off-guard by poignant memories.
After all, wasn't she the very essence of a controlled, self-
contained woman? Yes, but what woman was ever smart and
controlled when it came to love? Having never forgiven herself
the emotionalism of romantic involvement, although it
apparently wasn't sufficient for Curtis, Helen had decided
that would never be an option in her life again. True, the real
regret would be not having a child: that she would miss out on,
but it was just something she'd have to live with.

Hurriedly, she chose jeans and a loose sweater, took a shower
and dressed. Then she ate a bowl of cereal and sipped hot
coffee, contemplating the day ahead. Glancing at the den, she
saw a wooden desk positioned beneath a window, an empty
bookcase next to it...just perfect. Rinsing out the dishes, she
grabbed her thick parka and braved the outdoors; the central
gas heat unit had kept the house more comfortable than she'd
thought, and the brisk air hit her with force.

She ran down the stone walk, unlocked the trunk of her car and
got the Brother typewriter, carried it in, came back for the
12" display screen, took it in and arranged them on the desk,
hooking it up expertly. Although small, it was adequate for her
needs -- a Brother WP3400, quality printouts by typewriter;
storage on floppy disks, and small, easily installed.

Satisfied, Helen returned to the car, got suitcases and cartons
of her material. As she unpacked the reference books, the
jumble of notes she'd taken on her research field trips, her
mind was preoccupied about the work. She'd learned that few
small-town libraries in the South would allow copies of THE
REALIST or THE AMERICAN ATHEIST magazines to be
displayed on shelves openly, due to religious zealots who
denounced its accessible visibility. That could be a theme for
her factual book -- the lack of access to freedom of
information, restrictions and inhibitions among many southern
conservative religious communities. Of course it was in
violation of law; but it happened all the time, and she had
plenty of proof --  taped interviews with librarians and
citizens alike, adding color and flavor to their woefully
uninformed diatribes.

Forgetting the task of unpacking her clothing, Helen sat down
at the word processor, entered a few tentative ideas on a disk
and became engrossed in her work. When she glanced out the
window, looked at the sun high above the mountaintop, she was
stunned to see it was already noon! She felt ravenous and went
to the kitchenette, got wheat bread and mayo, ham and lettuce,
made a cup of black coffee and ate leisurely, content in the
haven of peace. No phone, no contact other than mail. She had
to fight Jordan on that; he'd insisted she have a portable car
phone, but she wouldn't relent.

The quiet was blissful, and as she looked out the windows a
gray squirrel scampered across the small back yard, then
disappeared into the nearby woods. She sighed, putting away
the dishes for later.

Impulsively, she walked out onto the back-porch, shivering in
the winter cold: it was like being in a bucolic portrait, the
natural landscape undiminished by man, only trees, land, fresh
air and sweet purity of nature. Untarnished brisk wind,
scented only with earthy evergreen from the woods, wafted
over her and she leaned against a post and closed her eyes.
Suddenly she felt that prickly sensation cover her skin, almost
identical to the early morning waking, and she shuddered,
glaring fiercely into the empty yard, halfway expecting to see
someone nearby.

Foolish, she told herself, and stalked across the dull-brown
grass, looking at the twisted limbs of an oak; she saw the
squirrel near woods, its twitchy motions nervously indicating
awareness of her unnatural presence. She returned its brave
stare, and then laughed at her intensity -- the rapt attention
she bestowed on everything. As though alarmed, the squirrel
raced up a pine, disappeared into the thick woods. Helen
started back across the yard, noticing how neatly designed the
house was, how it stood as arrogantly as a human on the slight
incline, proclaiming its ownership of territory.

Back on the porch, she chided herself for such flighty
metaphors; this place was giving her a flair for imagination,
and a ridiculous poetic streak as well! She had her hand on the
door when she heard the gruff voice, "Lady, you got a minute?"

Whirling around, Helen saw a man at the corner of the house;
he was peering at her quizzically. She vaguely recognized him,
couldn't place his face...then it occurred to her he was the man
she'd seen in the gorge, near that wreck of a place. She
stiffened, nervous in spite of herself, asked, "Yes?"

"Couldn't help notice you come up last night, you might want to
check that gas tank meter. A company man told me it was about
empty." He leaned against the house, grinned lazily, which
angered Helen unreasonably.

She blurted out, "I believe that's none of your business, is it?
Jordan, my friend who lent me the place, said it would be filled
Monday, that's only two days away."

He shrugged his brawny shoulders, pulled his faded denim
jacket tight and continued to stare at her lazily, a grin playing
on his bearded face. She returned his stare, unabashed by his
brash behavior. "While you're here, I might as well warn you
that we don't allow trespassers on this property." It sounded
as blunt as she'd intended it.

"Sorry lady, I was only trying to help. If it gets as cold as
they predict tonight, you may need more gas." He stamped his
boots on the frozen ground, advised, "Might ought to call that
Baker gasoline truck, get it filled this afternoon."

Reluctantly, Helen said, "Well, maybe you're right. But I don't
have a phone..." She could have kicked herself for that remark.
He could be an ax-murderer for all she knew, and it was
certainly unwise to blurt out her self-imposed isolation.

He came forward, stood near the bottom step and placed his
pointy-toed boot on the stone, studied her a moment and said,
"No, I'm not an ax-murderer."

Taken aback at having her exact thoughts repeated aloud,
Helen felt her face flame. She exclaimed, "Please go, I don't
need YOU, or...or...anyone!" Embarrassed at her stammering,
she opened the screen, put one foot in the doorway.

He smiled broadly, warming his facial features. His voice was
soft, "Lady, I'll phone in a request; the truck will get here by
four probably."

"Uh, thanks...I guess."

"You know, these folks back here in the hills...well, they don't
take to strangers, and never really accepted Jordan's buying
this place." He moved back, looked around the yard, up to the
mountainpeak. "But I'd be the first to say he's done wonders
with the old homestead. Mavis and Mert would have been proud
of it."

He glanced back at her, said, "Course, they never had the
money to fix it up. I own property, down in Whiskey Creek
Hollow."

She wanted to scream with frustration; did he think she cared
about local affairs? "Look, I appreciate the tip about gas, but
I'm a very busy person."

"Mavis and Mert lived here, right up till the day they died."
He grinned again, smugly. "But I'm sure you aren't interested
in their story, huh?"

"No, I'm not. So if you'll please excuse me now, I must get
back to work."

Helen went inside, looked back through the screen and saw him
still grinning. He was a big-boned man, rugged and raw-looking,
like one of those mountain men in movies or one of those
brawny guys in cowboy duds for cigarette ads. But his face
was oddly gentle-looking, soft gray eyes and dark blond hair
that was combed back off his wide forehead, a lock falling
down to his eyes, him wiping it away. He indeed was taking a
pouch of tobacco out of his coat pocket, rolling a cigarette,
lighting it and looking at her in an odd way, gazing upward
through a haze of smoke, his thick bushy eyebrows almost
veiling his speculative stare.

"I hope you are prepared for being here alone, or is someone
joining you?" His words were soft-spoken.

"That's none of your business. Now I must go." She pushed the
door shut, stood against it and felt giddy. More than masculine
presence, his peculiar knowing -- his coincidental statement of
what she was thinking, had unnerved her. She took deep
breaths, steadying herself, and went to the front door,
watched him walk along the stone walkway, striding in a long-
legged gait past her car, down the road and around the bend,
out of sight.

What kind of man was he? A menace or mere hindrance? She
suddenly realized she hadn't even asked his name, nor had he
requested hers!

"What utter nonsense," she said aloud, going to the bedroom
and jerking open her suitcase, grabbing out clothes
haphazardly, almost angrily arranging them in the closet. What
an arrogant, brash man, she thought, but then recalled his
considerate warning about the gas tank...

"Just what I don't need!" she muttered, returning to her work
with a vengeance.

                                  *  *  *  *  *  *


The gas man arrived at four, oddly saying he'd gotten
concerned and decided to drop by and check the tank, then
informed Helen that it was almost empty. She had him to fill it,
paid the bill and asked if he'd been called to come out; he said
no.

She was pondering on the stranger's link to this development
until it dawned on her he might have stolen gas from Jordan's
tank...and it infuriated her! To think he was ingratiating
himself in such a deceptive manner! Helen paced around the
room, wondering if he'd come again. If he did, she'd give him a
stern warning to stay away!

It got dark as she sat at the word processor, putting her notes
on disks, making sense out of her scrawl, listening to tapes of
interviews, trying to decide what to file and what to destroy.
Her eyes began aching around seven, and she got up for a
break, shut off the machine.

Heating vegetable soup, then making a small salad and pouring a
glass of milk, she sat the food on a tray and built a cozy fire,
brought the food to the sofa and ate while staring at firelight.
She'd avoided the radio and TV all day, aware to learn news
she might have to hear or see Curtis. But now she pulled the
portable black-and-white TV from the corner, adjusted the
antenna and clicked it on.

Being unable to get CNN was no assurance of not seeing Curtis;
some of the stations were using clips of him on updates about
the Gulf War. She sat there eating, watching a bland
movie...until the update came on. Luckily it was only a brief
spot, no Curtis. The war was disturbing to her, and even though
she was educated about foreign policy and international
relations, it still gave her a queasy feeling to witness such mass
destruction, both for U.S. troops and for the Iraqi people.

Her last argument with Curtis rang in her ears: She'd said the
CIA were remiss in not assassinating Saddam Hussein before
he got the whole world into such a dire predicament; Curtis had
said such actions were against international law; she'd
countered with the fate of all the senseless killing now
necessary to extract the monster from Kuwait; he'd grown
frustrated, angered at her illegal logic...and that had been
their last phone conversation. Now, as she watched an
announcer say the air raids continued relentlessly, Helen
wished she could apologize for her heated words. Curtis, too,
was in grave danger over there -- and she might very well
never see him again.

To distract her morbid thoughts, she washed dishes and then
closed all the curtains, amazed at how black it was outside. No
lights, nothing. She went back to the processor, sat down and
flicked it on. There was no disk in it, and she stared at the
screen, trying to decide what to enter next. Suddenly the
screen blinked, went totally orange and then black again. She
grumbled, "Just what I need, a defective processor!"

Suddenly words began to parade across the screen, and Helen
stared in shock, amazement as she read:

I AM THE ETERNAL ONE, THE BE-ALL, THE END-ALL. YE
SHALL LISTEN TO MY WORD. YE SHALL KNOW THAT I
AM WITH YOU, SPEAK TO YOU, THROUGH YOU IN THE
WAY OF OLDEN DAYS. COME, DO NOT DELAY FOR I
SEEK YE AS MY VOICE: VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU
HELEN, I COME TO SHOW YOU THE WAY OF OLD.

Helen blinked, startled and momentarily stunned; she reread
the words, carefully. She looked down at her hands as though
her fingers had betrayed her, typed out words she thought
sounded foolish, inane and meaningless. It was evocative of the
language in the Bible, and although she'd read it for reasons of
debate, she'd thought it convoluted and contradictory.

She hit the line-out key, and the screen never changed; she hit
the word-out key. Nothing! Helen jumped up, turned off the
switches and yet the writing stayed clearly on the screen.
Alarmed, she unplugged the cord from electricity. It blinked,
went orange and then new words printed boldly:

HELEN, YE ART MY VOICE: DO NOT FEAR MY WORDS,
BE YE AS LITTLE CHILDREN, TRUSTING. I SHALL
RETURN IN DREAMS, VISIONS...FAR AWAY, BUT
CLOSE...

Helen screamed, went running for the door, turned once to see
the words still etched brightly on the screen as she ran from
the house in blind panic.

                         End Chapter Two
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Chapter Three


The frigid blast of air hit Helen, stinging her cheeks as she
fled down the stone walkway; it was pitch-dark, and she
stumbled along, stopping at the car, a second of clarity as she
realized she'd forgotten the keys! Her eyes gradually adjusted
to the night, and a full moon illuminated the roadway.

For a brief moment, Helen stood glaring back at the mellow
light seeping from behind the window curtains, seeing warmth, a
welcoming glow...wishing she could return. But that seizure of
panic beat at her brain, and she ran out into the road, jogging
rapidly downhill, stumbling occasionally, finding her way,
pausing for breath and then feeling how cold the night was...her
coat hanging back in the closet!

She ran again, senselessly, unknowing of destination or time,
just the necessity of getting away from that...that...what? She
stopped abruptly, sucking in air, her lungs burning from the
arctic intake. She started thinking, retracing what had
happened, trying to calmly, rationally analyze the message on
her screen. Could it have been a defect in the processor?
She'd only purchased it the previous week, and never used it
before. Perhaps it had been programmed for self-
demonstration with that absurd greeting? Maybe...but that
seemed unlikely. However it made more sense than what
immediately ran through her mind when it occurred -- that
some outside force had written the ominous words!

Her heart slowed, and she began to steady herself, calming her
nerves. Then she looked around, aware of the deep night, the
encroaching woods, the far-off sound of a hoot owl, rustling in
underbrush just beyond the ditch. Her skin prickled with
chills, senses alert to the danger she'd placed herself in
thoughtlessly. Disgusted with herself, she pivoted and began
walking briskly back toward the house, head down,
concentrating on her feet.

The voice came out of nowhere: "Taking your nightly
constitutional?"

Helen heard herself scream; she tried to stop, but even as  she
saw the stranger practically materializing before her in the
road, she couldn't quit. He caught her flailing arms, steadying
her and saying, "It's just me, sorry I scared you."

His soft voice seemed to soothe her, and she gulped air, deep
and irregular until he removed his jacket, wrapped it around
her shoulders and said, "You look like you saw a ghost."

He turned a flashlight on her face, adding, "Take it easy,
nothing will hurt you now, I'm here to protect you."

That chauvinistic remark cleared her mind, and she said
sharply, "Let go of me!"

He moved away, still holding the light on her. She snapped, "Is
this an interrogation? Turn off the beam!"

He complied, standing silently in the dark, still apparently
eyeing her shaky presence. At last he asked, "You okay?"

Helen was tempted to tell him everything, but thought better
of it. Surely he would only laugh at her, and besides, she didn't
quite know what to make of it. "I'm fine, just out for a walk,
needed a break from work."

"You always go without your coat, and without a light?" He
flashed the light on, pointed the beam out in front of them; the
potholes were obviously treacherous, and she shook her head,
amazed she hadn't fallen and broken her neck.

"No, I...well, I...uh heard a funny noise and ran away from the
house. It was stupid, and I realized that just now."

He took her arm, steered her along safely, quietly asked,
"What kind of noise?"

No hint of irony, no stab of sarcasm, no questioning of her
hearing a suspicious noise in the night. She laughed, said
haltingly, "Uh, one of those crazy noises women alone
sometimes hear, I guess."

He riveted the light upward, shining the beam into dense trees,
shadows playing spooky-like in the forest. He said seriously,
"Lots of wild game up here, deer, bobcat, bear, might have
been something nosing around your garbage."

She decided he wasn't a fiend, nor even a potential danger. Her
voice softened, "By the way, I'm Helen March...and you are?"

"You could call me a stranger in the night, but I go by Kent
McCord."

She stopped, holding onto his arm.

He paused, looked down at her; she could smell tobacco, leather
and felt a slight attraction, their closeness very intimate. He
brought the light on her, allowed the beam to play up her body,
to her face, then back down. His voice was a whisper, "Glad to
meet you, Helen."

"You too Kent. Uh, about the gas tank, it did need filling but
fortunately the guy showed up to check on it without calling."

"Oh, I believe he got a message."

He began walking and she followed along, keeping up with him.

She mused aloud suspiciously, "Maybe you walk at night to
steal gas from other's tanks, or...even scare women alone?" It
had dawned on her again that his presence here was extremely
coincidental, the timing almost perfect.

"If you must know, I was down the mountain, minding my own
business when I had the strange feeling that...well, never mind."

"Go on...you had a strange feeling that...?"

"I don't want you to get the idea I'm a nut, but sometimes I
have premonitions, feelings that..."

"Please spare me!" Helen thought, here we go again --
FEELINGS, the ESP jargon of foresight, of phony baloney!

"Sorry. But that's why I hurried up here...the feeling that you
were, well, somehow upset."

She sighed wearily. What she'd just thought she experienced
(seeing the archaic writing on the processor screen) would be
right up this man's alley, but no way would she confide that
momentary lapse to him. She simply said, "Whatever, I  hope
you won't take advantage of my being alone. Besides, I'm
perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

They rounded the bend, and he halted, said, "A modern woman,
huh? Fearless in the face of any kind of danger?"

"Yes." She took off his jacket, handed it to him, stated flatly,
"Good night, Kent, and perhaps good-bye."

He was smiling through his beard, she could see that smile in
the flashlight glow. Kent nodded, said, "Your wish is my
command. But remember, there are some things we can't really
know, only sense. That is what I felt toward you tonight."

She began walking away, him staring at her back. She wanted
to render him unable to affect her, so she said over her
shoulder, "Please don't come here again."

There was no reply, but she heard his steps retreating, and
knew he was leaving at last.

At the door, she braced herself for the worst. As she went into
the den, her eyes were drawn to the word processor screen. It
was blank, and she sank down on the sofa, shivering. Had she
"imagined" those words on the screen? And if so, did that mean
she was losing her mind, having a psychotic episode?

She couldn't face that, but the other alternatives -- that some
superior, outside force had contacted her, or that some
supernatural aura was hovering in the house and meant to
contact her, were ridiculous! She convinced herself in about
two minutes that she had a defective machine, or that it was
programmed to display that bizarre greeting.

She put away her notes, stacked her books back on the shelves
and put on her gown, got into bed. But she couldn't bring
herself to turn out the bedside lamp -- for one thing she was
unable to comprehend, how had a processor worked without
electricity?


                                *  *  *  *  *  *


The night was a restless one; Helen tossed and turned, and once
she even awoke, sweaty and disgruntled from vague remnants of
a dream. All she could recall was the image of bright dancing
words in front of her, no clear message or psychological
connections to her subconscious. She always tried to analyze
her dreams, and it disturbed her not to remember the details
so she could clarify her feelings.

Morning proved to be cloudy, a dismal dawn, and by ten
drizzle was falling, making her feel oppressed and trapped.

She had carefully avoided the processor, but finally told
herself it was ridiculous to do so and sat before it, flipping the
switch on. Nothing was the least bit out-of-order; it was
functioning perfectly and soon she was caught up in her work.

The rainy afternoon was uneventful, and by dark she built a
fire, made chili and sat before the firelight, eating and
watching TV. The Gulf War continued unabated; news anchors
were jostling for positions, and she figured Curtis would land a
prominent assignment, maybe get himself in line for award-
winning reporting.

The air bombardment was relentless; she felt revulsion again at
seeing the massive destruction, but realized it was necessary
to rid Hussein of his arsenal of chemical/biological weapons.
Curtis had always been critical of Iraq's stockpiling
armaments, possibly leading to this kind of situation. She
briefly recalled his investigative report on suppliers here in
the USA, unscrupulous arms dealers linked to greedy
businessmen who avidly sold various weapons to Iraq and had
inadvertently aided Hussein's build-up of military strength,
now our own worst nightmare coming true. Curtis had been
criticized sharply by our government because the report came
at a time when the USA supported Iraq in their war against
Iran.

When the news was over, she got up and cleaned her dishes,
then just snuggled down on the sofa, tired. Her eyes ached
from the strain, and she closed them, sighed and fell promptly
asleep.

The dreamy quality was an unreal shimmering before her:

She was outside the house, walking in the nearby woods and
could see everything from atop a hill. It was dusk, twilight
purple, going dark quickly, when suddenly the sky seemed to
open and the woods, the house, the hills were flooded with
magnificent brilliance, a piercing, glaring light that drenched it
all in vibrant clarity. She stared, in awe and amazement: then a
stiff, howling wind started, growing stronger and stronger until
she couldn't stand alone, had to grab onto a pine, hold on for
dear life. Into this whirlwind came a voice: HELEN, VERILY I
SAY TO YE, DO MY RECKONING. COME CHILD, BE AS
INNOCENT LAMBS, FEAR NOT AND I SHALL WALK
WITH YE, EVEN AS YE DOUBT. BELIEVE AND YE SHALL
KNOW THE TRUTH.

Helen awoke, trembling and sweaty, repeating the words over
and over, pondering what it meant. Was she losing her mind?
This wasn't like an ordinary dream; the lingering wind, the aura
of light was still vivid and clear to her. She jumped off the
sofa, wanted to scream but couldn't. Her voice seemed  stuck
in her throat, so she slumped to the floor, weeping silently.

Midnight found her still huddled near the sofa, awake, afraid
to sleep, almost afraid to move. When she heard the knocking
at her door, she couldn't answer it.

His voice penetrated her trancelike state: "Helen, you in
there?"

Sobbing, she slowly lifted herself up by the antique table,
staggered to the door, flung it open. "Kent...please...help."

Kent jerked open the screen, grabbed her just as she began to
faint; he mumbled, "I knew this was going to happen!"

When Helen revived, the bearded stranger was pacing around
the room, watching her closely. "You okay?"

She momentarily felt confused, then reality came pounding
back, and she murmured, "I'm sorry, I..."

"You may as well know, I got the feeling again and know you
are in need of me here."

"Please, I..." Helen was utterly perplexed. She couldn't object,
couldn't make sense out of anything so she simply asked, "How
did you know?"

"lt's happened before, while Mavis and Mert lived here...and it
won't ever be stilled." He stared hard at her, coming closer
and leaning down to pull the patchwork quilt up to her chin.

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I've come a long ways to be here, to help you, to lead
you."

Helen was beginning to regain her intellectual faculties and
gradually question what she'd dreamed; it was, after all, only a
dream. She sat up, and modestly rearranged her rumpled
clothing.  "Excuse my state of disarray, I guess had a bad
dream."

"Is that all it was?" He now bent down on one knee, peering
into her face, his serious concern almost hidden by bushy
eyebrows and full beard.

"Yes, um, I apologize for my frantic state. I think it must be
my being alone. I'm used to a busy editorial office and the
quiet is obviously causing me some psychological difficulties."

"Well that's the first time I've heard that explanation but...if
you can't accept what is happening, then you're not ready for
me." He grinned lazily, stood and went to the door. "When you
get ready to accept the strangeness of this phenomenon then
I'll be back."

Watching him leave, Helen had an anxious moment of doubt:
Was she experiencing extraordinary psychic phenomenon?
Or...was it merely her imagination gone wild in this isolation?
She didn't know, and frankly didn't want to even contemplate
the implications of these developments.

Resolutely, she shook off the creepy feelings and vowed to get
back into her work with more determination tomorrow morning.

                      End Chapter Three
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Chapter Four


The next few days were calm, serene; Helen worked avidly on
her book, and made progress with a theme. She tried to
establish a routine that left little time for any imaginary
pondering. The day was spent at her processor; evenings she
stayed in front of the TV, either watching movies or regular
programming -- keeping posted on the war. She avoided going
for walks, or in any way venturing out far enough to encounter
Kent.

Although the small black-and-white television was inadequate
for viewing, Helen tried to accept the limited set. However, she
finally realized it was causing eyestrain, and decided to get
another one. Reluctant to drive a long distance, she instead
went to the nearby small town and located a local shop,
purchased a color set, then chatted with the owner. Jack
Rodale was friendly and remembered Mavis and Mert Hanson,
who were apparently known locally as imaginative storytellers.
At least, that's what he called them -- and Helen felt confident
he was correct in that assessment.

Driving back to Cider Mountain, Helen peered down into the
gorge, saw nothing of Kent; the place looked deserted and
lonely, merely an empty shack. She'd wondered how he endured
that rundown place, since it barely seemed livable; the
property was wildly overgrown, weedy and although she'd seen
him burning brush the other day, now it appeared he'd not
cleared any ground, left no trace of his industrious efforts.

In fact, she couldn't see any sign he'd burnt anything...the area
still looked unkempt, and there was no pile of ash, nothing. That
puzzled her, but she kept right on driving, determined not to
let his whereabouts be a concern of hers.

Pulling up at the house, she unloaded the TV, went inside and
hooked it up. She watched weather reports, glad it was
supposed to be sunny and unseasonably warm, near 65 today.
She decided it was time she got a little exercise, put on jeans
and sneakers and went out back, walked around the yard and
for the first time, actually ventured into the woods.

At first, she was astonished at how dark, how dim it was when
she got farther down a straw-littered path; but the well-worn
footpath was clearly leading somewhere. She kept right on
walking, telling herself this felt good, it was stretching her leg
muscles, relieving tension in her back and neck muscles from
hours bent over her desk. It was sharply cooler, and she pulled
her jacket tighter, zipped it up to her neck.

She walked at a quick pace, heading downhill, on through a
narrow gorge, past a creek that gurgled near the middle of a
stream, but had leaves jammed up against the mossy banks. It
looked like an inviting place to rest, so she sat down on a flat
rock and felt the sunshine falling through interlaced tree
limbs, warming her as she gazed at the briskly flowing water.
Pebbles in the bottom of the creek glinted sunlight sparks;
bird calls echoed, and squirrels chattered noisily. Relaxing,
Helen chided herself for being too nervous to explore the
surrounding property; Jordan owned fifty acres, and it was
unspoiled, natural beauty.

She caught a glimpse of something scurrying through brush,
then weaving between trees; her heart tripped, but she tried
to calm her instinctive fear. Looking closer, she saw a furry
head poking out from straw piled beside a pine. It appeared to
be a raccoon, and she held her breath, observing the twitchy
motions. But on closer inspection, she saw the creature was
oddly shaped for a raccoon, and when it moved slightly, Helen
realized it was a gray-striped tabby cat. She called, "Here
kitty, kitty."

The cat stopped dead still, staring. It was now o
and stood poised with indecision. She didn't move, but called
gently, "Come on kitty cat, I won't hurt you."

It tilted its head, curious but cautious. She coaxed sweetly,
"Kitty, kitty aren't you lost?"

The cat began walking slowly, uncertainly in her direction...
meowed, meowed again and then stopped, staring from green
fixed eyes. Then as if having made an impulsive decision, it
walked right up to Helen, sat down and waited.

She eased her hand forward, slowly touching its head,
murmuring, "That's a good kitty."

It obviously liked her touch, and obediently lay down, rolling
over for her to scratch its belly. She complied, soothing it with
low tones, rubbing the belly. When she stood, it joined her,
followed her agreeably all the way back to the house,
occasionally meowing as pleasing behavior.

Since she had always loved cats, had one as a child, Helen was
delighted with the new companion, and fell to talking to it just
for the sound of her voice, the feeling she wasn't alone. That
night it slept on her bed, and by morning they were fast
friends, comfortable with the limited arrangement: Both were
somewhat aloof, but needed at least the semblance of not being
totally alone, apparently.

Thursday morning, she fed the cat a bowl of milk and, watching
it lick up the treat greedily, decided it couldn't be anyone's
pet. No collar, nearly starving, it had to be a stray. But it sure
had been tame, and she wondered if she should place an ad in a
local paper, request the owner claim it? Still, she couldn't help
but name it Leo, since the haughty attitude suggested a lion's
share of arrogance.

Before getting down to work, Helen decided to take a more
thorough tour of the house. She'd tried to stay out of the
attic, and the basement -- mainly because it wasn't her
property. But her natural curiosity got the best of her. And
besides, she hadn't forgotten the odd experiences and she
worried someone had gained entrance and was trying to play
mind-games with her. It seemed highly unlikely, but she
preferred that idea to having had a psychic experience or
losing her mind to insanity.

She began by pulling down the ladder in a closet, climbing up
to see what was in the attic. It was pitch-dark and she flicked
on the flashlight she'd dug out of a kitchen cabinet; the beam
played across a narrow arched sector just below the roof.
Since the center section of the house was open-beamed, there
was no  attic space...but this area was above the bedroom.
Barely a crawl-space, but she undertook an inspection anyway.

It was unusually clean, and she crept onto the rough boards;
the scent of new wood mingled with dust and dampness, but
after crawling around and finding nothing, she decided it was
devoid of any trappings that could be used to fake eerie
phenomenon. The dusty odor clung to her, and she got down,
went through the den, into the kitchen, looked speculatively at
the ceiling. Though she couldn't find an entrance, there had to
be an arched attic there, exactly the size of the one over the
bedroom.

She decided to look at the exterior, started outside but had to
stop, let Leo go ahead of her. He meowed loudly, ran out the
door, and raced across the back porch, down the steps and into
the woods. Helen called, ran after the fleeing cat, dismayed to
lose her recently-won companion. But watching the cat
disappear into the thick pines, her mood lightened; the cat
might have another home or just need to roam free --  and who
was she to capture it and curtail its independent nature?

Standing on the hillside, she peered down at the house,
illuminated by early-morning sunlight. She could see how the
sloped roof, glinting light off the tin, came to an abrupt angle
just beneath the kitchen window. There had to be an attic
above that room, so she studied it more carefully. Eventually,
Helen saw the A-shaped doorway near the corner, and hurried
to the only small outbuilding, looking for a ladder.

The shed was a makeshift flat-topped structure, and she flung
open the door, trying to see into the darkened interior.
Walking gingerly through the small opening, she located a big
metal box of tools. Then she saw the outline of a ladder and
beside it hung a rake, hoe, shovel and several yard-work items.

The ladder was a fold-up type, and she struggled with the
weight, got it angled out the door and was dragging it across
the yard when she heard a familiar male voice ask, "Need some
help?"

Irritated, she looked up to see Kent almost loping around the
corner of the house, his face intent on her plight. "No thank
you. And I believe I told you not to come here again?"

"Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I apologize for
my, uh, somewhat corny way of meeting you."

Helen stood still, let the ladder drop and said, "Does that mean
you pretended all that creepy stuff? That you deliberately
misled me and tried to deceive me?" She studied his face,
never moving an inch.

"Not exactly, but...ah, I just wanted to meet you. I mean, you
are an attractive woman and we are rather isolated on this
mountain. Besides, is there anything wrong with a man offering
a little help to a lady alone?" He came closer, still peering at
her with those dove-gray eyes, smiling slightly behind the
beard.

She looked toward the house, felt a flash of anger but tried to
squelch it, said tightly, "No, but I must tell you that I value
honesty and your approach was anything but honest."

He was now grabbing up the ladder, handling it with ease and
asking mildly, "Where you want this?"

Exasperated but willing to have some help just at this moment,
she said, "Over there. I want to see if that doorway in the
kitchen corner goes into an attic."

He took the ladder to where she pointed, set it up against the
house and asked, "Want me to check?"

"I suppose I can't stop you!" She feigned frustration, but in
fact she was beginning to feel glad he'd come along. He seemed
capable and although she was loath to admit it aloud, she
needed his masculine assistance just now. She still didn't trust
him, and it was possible he'd even arrived at just this exact
time to prevent her looking in the attic. Still, if she wasn't
satisfied with his survey, she could come back later to take a
peek herself.

He unfolded the metal ladder, climbed it. She watched as he
stepped higher and higher, giving her a good view of his
muscular body, revealing his strength and agility.

Once he began wrestling with the attic door, she saw it would
have been impossible for her to have gotten it open. He pried
it loose at last, poked his head inside and yelled, "What you
looking for anyhow?"

"Nothing really, just wondered if..." she paused, aware of how
silly it would appear to tell him the truth. "Uh, I thought I was
getting a leak the other day when it rained."

"Nah, this place hasn't been here long enough to spring a leak
in the roof." He glanced down at her, grinning. "Sure you
aren't looking for spooks?"

Helen cupped her hand over her eyes to shade off the sun,
enabling her to see his wide grin. "No, of course not!"

Then improvising, she explained: "I was...well, I was curious if
anything was there...like boxes of stuff or whatever needed to
be stored. It's as if Jordan never brought anything here, at
least nothing he left behind, things I might need."

He began descending, having replaced the door. As he stepped
off the ladder, he suddenly grabbed her, held her in front of
him, his broad, meaty hands on her shoulders. "You're a lousy
liar."

She felt her skin burn; the touch of him reminded her of the
initial physical attraction on the night they'd been together
walking. Stiffening, she said tightly, "Let go of me!"

Incredibly, he pulled her against his hard chest, began softly
stroking her wavy hair, said huskily, "Helen, I just want to
protect you, that's all."

Her knees almost buckled; his virility was like a drug and she
had to struggle not to reach her hands up to his beard, instead
mumbling, "Don't...I...please..."

He tilted her head up, his fingers gentle under her chin. "I
don't want to fall in love with you, I can't. But...I need you to
heed what I say, understand what I'm here for."

She looked into his gray eyes, felt another wave of
overwhelming weakness; it was as though he had some kind of
power over her, and not just sexual attraction...it was more like
a deep hypnotic trance, looking into his eyes, falling deeper
and deeper...

His soft voice was mesmerizing: "Verily I say to ye, do not
resist. Ye are to be as little, helpless lambs.  Ye will not
remember that I, Kent, say these things to ye, Helen...it is my
wish ye be vulnerable, willing... Ye are to never attempt seeing
in the attic, ye will forget my being here today."

Then a fierce wind rushed from the woods, the sky clouded
over, it went dark almost. He lifted her up in his arms, took her
inside the house, lay her upon the bed and looked at her as she
stared in a transfixed daze at him. "Be ye as little children,
trust and believe. When ye awake, ye will trust me, remember
this moment only within your subconscious, this hypnotic
suggestion rendering ye willing."

Helen slept and in her dream it was light, bright, warm-white
serenity. When she finally woke, it was almost noon and she
couldn't remember where she was -- or how she'd gotten into
bed in the middle of the day.

Unable to shake the dreamy feeling, she finally got up and
fixed her lunch, trying to clear her mind. But she felt such an
overwhelming laziness, such a calming lull, that she quit trying
to decipher her reactions, instead going back to bed and falling
asleep, thinking perhaps she was coming down with the flu.

                      End Chapter Four
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

               Chapter Five


Helen slept for almost twenty-four hours. When she awoke
Friday at noon, her disorientation was alarming. At first, she
didn't believe that she'd been in bed around the clock, but
watching the news on TV, she acknowledged the lapse of time.

Trying to account for the drowsy, dull feelings, she took her
temperature, saw it was normal, apparently no symptoms of the
flu. Ravenous, she made a bacon-and-cheese omelet and fresh
toast, coffee and, just as she sat at the table, heard scratching
at the back screen. Upon opening the door, she saw Leo staring
at her. She let the cat inside, gave it milk and watched it lap up
the treat. "Where you been you little rascal?"

Leo tilted his head, licked off the milk and pounced onto an
empty chair, curling up and making himself at home. She sighed,
sat back down and began eating her meal. Puzzled about the
cat's sudden reappearance and her fatigue, she wondered if she
was going to be able to stay here?

It was a new, disturbing experience, being totally alone --
years of disorderly havoc had preceded this time. Noisy
editorial offices; the shouting matches with Curtis while they
were married; the years of college, roommates who were always
boisterous. Even her childhood as an only child had not been
lonely, since she had cousins and her parents always engaged
her in their lively debates. So, although she'd lived the
previous year after her divorce alone in a singles' apartment
complex, it was always teeming with active people, and she
spent little time in the apartment anyhow.

But then, remembering her depression over her parents death,
Helen felt tears in her eyes. They had been so special,
wonderful and when they were gone, life had lost much of its
luster until therapy helped pull her out of grieving melancholy.
Her parents had been driving back from Austin, Texas where
they'd both spoken at an annual Atheist convention; their car
had collided with a truck on a rain-slick highway -- her mother
killed instantly, her dad lingering several days from extensive
burns. Agonizing, painful days which tested Helen's strength.
However, she'd gotten through those dark days, and her dad
had not buckled under the burden of impending death --had
never once said he needed religious support nor any kind of
spiritual last rites.

When it was all over, and a simple memorial service that
commemorated their scholarly contributions had been held,
Helen was utterly wretched. She recalled how Curtis had
helped her, but inevitably she needed professional counseling
to overcome her deep sorrow. And without conventional faith
or religious beliefs, she'd had to have some incredibly strong
resolve to deal with her grief. In the end, she'd been proud of
her ultimate survival and adjustment. Just as she'd finally
accepted her divorce and the loss of Curtis, and been able to
continue with her life successfully.

However, as she cleaned up the dishes, Helen wondered if
maybe those emotional scars were deeper than she'd realized?
And now, alone here and isolated, her psyche was troubled
beyond coping ability? If so, what should she do?

Leo jumped off the chair, came slithering around her legs, and
she scooped him up in her arms, crooned, "Kitty, you think I d
learn to handle things, huh?"

The cat gave her an inscrutable look, staring solemnly into her
face, purring sweetly. She sighed, and walked through the
house, finally putting him down. The cozy comfort of homey
touches as her fingers traced an antique bird cage, its delicate,
intricate geometric designs never meant for a real bird, still
left her chilled; nothing, not even the beautiful silk roses in a
precious ceramic vase, could warm her heart.

She walked by her word processor, felt guilty for not having
spent the morning working, but then sat down in front of it and
stared blankly out the window above the desk. The hillside was
gray, a winter weary gray, naked treelimbs, dead grass...she
suddenly had a vague memory of the shed, seeing it out back.
Wasn't she looking for a ladder out there yesterday?

But it was only a fleeting image, and she finally dismissed it
and flicked on the processor, getting down to some earnest
work. The hours passed swiftly as she stayed engrossed in her
notes, finishing a rough draft of the first chapter, reworking it
several times, making an outline of the following chapter.

She realized that if all went well, she might have a tentative
rough draft for Jordan by summer; he would be impressed. The
magazine had helped finance her leave, and located a publisher
in New York willing to look at the manuscript.

When Helen shut off the machine, she went out into the dusky
light and checked the mailbox: a tape cassette package lay
inside, and she jerked it out. This was her first personal
message; only a few short business letters had arrived from
Jordan, but now, making out Curtis's scrawl on the package,
she rushed back into the house, went in search of her tape
player. She'd told Curtis the mailing address here, but hadn't
thought he'd have time to communicate with her.

Her tape player was on a shelf in the closet, where she'd
stashed it, and she went back to the den, ruffled Leo's hair and
quickly built a fire, then relaxed on the sofa, put in the tape
and listened.

Curtis's exuberant voice, well-modulated and pleasing as
always, came on at once:

"Hi Cricket! You better be minding the farm back there, cause
honey it's hell over here!"

Helen laughed, thrilled at hearing his voice, at his boyish
attempt to lighten the somber mood of his predicament. Leo
jumped into her lap, and she petted the cat as the recording
continued:

"Honey, these Scuds are real duds, but hey, they are scary! Me
and a couple of reporters went to the front yesterday, had to
fight those military guides, man they are strict. I mean, I
never had this problem before. Hell, what do they expect? Do
they think the American people will always be willing to let the
military censor everything, even the press and media? All the
other war coverage I've done, the collapse of the Romanian
dictatorship, the government crackdown in China and the war in
Afghanistan...our access was better. Hell honey, Cricket, you
know I can't handle these restrictions, the limitations. I am a
man who gets hard news, the real story. Could say I've got the
right stuff...but enough about me. How you doing kiddo, getting
any lately?"

Helen winced; not only was his inquiry blunt as usual, but it
also made her aware of just how much she missed his sensuality.
They'd had a superb sex-life, and that was the one aspect
she'd been unable to deny -- and regrettably she couldn't deny
a growing itchy, anxious need of sex since they'd parted.

"So Cricket, you writing the book? How's ol Jordy, he still
trying to get in your pants? I know how that man thinks, babe,
don't let him. He's married and ain't half as good-looking as I
am."

Laughter, husky laughter; then some voices in the background,
and him yelling, "You guys, quiet...I'm talking to my babe back
in the states."

She moved slightly, and Leo adjusted to her new position; his
green eyes fixed on the tape, almost as if he didn't trust the
voice now coming to life again.

"Cricket, sorry about the noise. These old war horses, they like
to carry on. Talk about your competition...all the major
networks are here. I'm having to keep my foot in the door, or
they'll be robbing me of my place. Ain't no way though."

Helen stopped the tape, needed to take a break and just think
about Curtis Mann. She could almost see him before her, the
brown eyes so lively, his emotional expression and vibrancy...he
was so ALIVE! And for some reason, this thought made her ache
for him. It was all a farce, her pretense that she didn't care
for Curtis; she'd never stopped loving him, and probably never
would. She switched the tape back on:

"Helen, honey, you know I wish you success with the book, and
I know you need some privacy. But that Jordy, don't let him
hide you away too long. I think being alone too long is wrong,
not good for you. So you don't hole up there too much, go out
some, drive back to Birmingham...do something to get out and
away from such isolated work occasionally."

There was a long silence, static on the tape. Then he said, "Hey,
I gotta run babe. But seriously, hon, I'll always love you, even
if we can't live together. If you get a chance, make me a tape,
let me know how you're doing. And I still think you're wrong in
not having a phone there! Take care, Cricket...love you."

She shut it off, stood and stretched. The cat leaped up on the
back of the sofa, arched its back and then jumped to floor, ran
to the door, where she let it out.

True, she thought, Curtis knows me too well. He fears I'll
become a hermit here, or that I'll work too hard without any
distractions. Impulsively, she listened to the tape again, just
enjoying the sound of his voice.

She felt lonely, very lonely. It was dark outside now as she
stood at the door wondering if Kent was home? It was odd that
she hadn't seen him since that night he told her she must accept
the strange events...

Wanting company, any company, she had to restrain herself
from walking outside, going down the hill to his house. Instead,
she heated some soup, and ate a quick bite, then decided to
make a tape to Curtis.

She flipped the tape over, talked a little, then ran it back to
see if her recorder was okay. An eerie sound hissed from the
recorder...and to her horror as she listened, a deep, haunting
voice said:

VFRILY I SAY TO YE, HELEN, COME...BE AS LITTLE
LAMBS, DO MY BECKONING...

Alarmed, Helen shut it off; then replayed it, and the same
voice came through again, the same message. She stood,
trembling, and hurriedly got her coat, went out and slipped into
her car. Maybe it was time she confided in Kent about this,
asked his advice. She had to talk to someone, confide in
someone...and he was nearby...very close.

                  End Chapter Five
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Chapter Six

Helen drove down the mountain highway, obsessed with the
continuing messages. Was it a symptom of psychosis? Did the
mind become so completely distorted that one couldn't
recognize madness when it occurred? Was one's insanity
merely obvious others?

Her car headlights slashed into the blackness, and she rounded
a curve sharply, almost hitting a ditch. She tried to focus on
the road, handling the Allante more carefully. If she couldn't
talk to an objective person soon, her emotional state would get
worse. She desperately needed to unburden the confusion, and
confide in someone...Kent seemed the only choice and besides,
as she located the rutted dirt road leading to his ramshackle
dwelling, she realized that she could trust him. Why, she didn't
know; it was just a deep feeling he would understand.

As Helen pulled up to the darkened house, she was worried at
no light being visible; it was around nine, so surely Kent wasn't
already in bed? She sat there, slowly growing uneasy in the
jungle-like yard, the hulking shadowy house almost leering her.
She shivered, pulled her jacket close and shut off the motor.
Quiet, utterly quiet. She lowered a window, listened but only
heard a soft wind rustling through gnarled, leafless tree limbs.

Bracing herself, she got out, yelled, "Kent!" Then she started
for the house, but her feet got tangled in weeds and she
stopped to unsnare her legs from briars. Looking up, she
thought she saw a flickering light in the backyard, and began
rapidly advancing around the side of the house, fighting weeds.

She now reluctantly took out a penlight, put the thin beam in
the yard, saw no one. Helen sighed with distress; her eyes went
over the snarled, dried vegetation. It appeared untouched, and
she couldn't find the least sign that Kent had been cultivating
the area, trying to tame its wildness.

Her hands shook, and the beam traveled a trembly path up to a
rear porch with rotten boards, some fallen through to the
ground. She tackled it anyhow, staggering up the shaky steps,
avoiding the broken boards, stooping at a shattered window,
where she looked inside, training the beam indoors. Nothing but
cobwebs, faded, torn wallpaper; no furniture, no evidence of
human habitation. It looked forlorn, and she shivered, but
couldn't resist opening the torn screen door, then a wooden
door.

Once inside, she tiptoed around the cracked linoleum floor,
thinking to find Kent fast asleep in some closed room. But the
house, after a complete search, was empty. At least, no human
was inside; however, she did locate several old cardboard
boxes of items in a closet, and impulsively took them with her.

Making her way to the car, she felt foolish; it was obvious no
one had lived here in years. And that raised the question of
why Kent was claiming to be the owner, and resident? She
started the car, backed slowly down the rutted road, and
headed back up the mountain. Securely back inside her cozy
firelit house, she sat on the sofa wondering why she had
trusted Kent? It was ridiculous, yet even now knowing he had
lied, she had this deep trust in him. Why?

Seeing the recorder, she switched it on, hearing nothing, just
the smooth sound of a blank tape. No message, no spooky
voice... not even her own! This was evidence of the facts: she
was "hearing" voices which didn't exist outside of her warped
mind! It was a sobering realization but instead of being upset,
she calmly began to open one of the boxes.

There was a dusty white Bible; she lay it aside, then found
several clips of human hair, tied with faded ribbons keepsakes
perhaps, reminders of others' last flesh-and-blood existence.
She then opened a tiny metal box, and saw yellow-faded
photos, which she took out, and began examining one by one.

The first was of a lovely young woman, her ankle-length
starched white dress neat and formal, a high lacy collar
touching her chin, her dark wavy hair done up in a chignon. An
angelic little girl of about five was seated on her lap, and
smiling sweetly into the camera, possibly the woman's daughter.

Helen shuffled the photos, and next came one of a man with a
familiar face, beard, hair, an inscrutable glint in his light-
colored eyes, wearing overalls, plaid shirt, standing alone near
the base of a mountain, just in the edge of a wooded pathway.
She gasped, recognizing Kent -- or at least one of his ancestors
who resembled him.

She hurriedly looked at the remainder of photos. Most were of
a familiar house in much better shape, but it was the one she'd
just come from...and several shots of other relatives, perhaps.
Then, another one of Kent, or his double, standing beside a
creek, pointing to some vaporous substance rising off the
water, like a mist or fog. She examined each photo critically;
then she found a magnifying glass, studied them closely -- but
couldn't find any dates, time, etc. However, they all appeared
to have been made in the late 1800s, or early 1900s, because
of the period clothing, and the crude photographs of that era.

Exhausted, puzzled and now convinced that Kent represented
some weird connection to the past, she finally put the boxes
aside and went to bed. Although she didn't feel sleepy, the
moment her head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep, dreamless
slumber.

Morning sunlight streamed in the windows, awakening Helen in
bed; she sat up, rubbing her face, seeing Leo scratching on the
windowpane impatiently. Jumping up, she went to the front
door and let him in. He hitched his tail with irritation, running
to the fridge, meowing for milk.

She poured him a dish, gave him a pat and went to take a
shower, letting the cool spray briskly bring her more alert.
Remembering the past night's episode, she hurriedly dressed in
a loose knit pantsuit, blow-dried her hair and dabbed on a hint
of makeup. Then as she fixed coffee, she decided to tackle the
other boxes, and went to get them out of the bedroom closet.

However, when she flung open the door, she didn't see the
boxes where she'd left them. Her eyes frantically searched the
limited space, over the floor, up to the top shelf...nothing!

Helen raced back to the den, walked around the open expanse,
her hands patting cushions, lifting pillows and rugs, seeking the
photos, hoping some had fallen out of the boxes. But she finally
slumped down on the sofa, defeated. There were no photos
here, the boxes were gone, and there was certainly no faded
remnants from the past. Had she conjured up the whole thing?
Had she actually drove to the ramshackle house, or was that
too only imaginary?

Leo leaped up on her lap, licked his paws daintily, began
washing his face, unconcerned with her inner turmoil. She
petted the cat distractedly, realizing she had to leave
here...see a therapist. Do something, anything to prevent
further madness from enveloping her. The cat looked at her,
tilting its head quizzically. She tried a weak laugh, said, "Guess
I'm losing it, Leo."

Helen heard a noise on the back porch, and lifted the cat down,
got up and started across the floor, but her foot somehow hung
on a small rug, and her other one slid on another rug, which
went slipping across the polished wood floor. She felt herself
falling, and unable to grasp anything, went sprawling to the
ground, hitting with a thud. One foot was twisted behind her,
and she felt a cutting pain, moaned but couldn't get up, only lay
helplessly in the morning sunlight.

It was an hour before the pain had relented enough for her to
try to stand, and even then she barely limped to the sofa.
Looking at her ankle, it was bruised and swollen, probably
severely sprained. She knew a trip anywhere was out of the
question, and Leo seemed to agree as he made himself
comfortable beside her.

The morning was a blur of slow, quiet pain. She wanted to call
for help, but how? No phone, only the mail as communication --
that was it! When the mailman drove up here today she might
get him to bring her outside help. There was a chance she could
get outdoors, meet his car; he usually came around two on
Saturday afternoon, so she managed to put on a jacket, go and
sit near a front window, waiting.

Weary and pained, she nodded off, fell into a nap. When she
awoke, it was dusk, the mail long gone. Helen felt like a victim
of her own stupidity. How could she have fallen asleep? And
then she saw a Jeep coming up the road, pulling up to the house.
Unbelievably Curtis Mann jumped out, came striding up the
walkway, onto the porch, began pounding on her door.

She called out, "Come on in!"

And then he was striding toward her, his handsome face happy
but then turning into surprise as he saw her on the sofa, his
exuberant voice shouting, "Helen, Cricket, what in the name
of..."

Shaking her head, she said, "Please, no speeches! I hurt my
ankle this morning, fell and..."

"Honey, I was afraid you'd get in a predicament here alone!"
He hurried to her side, got down on one knee, examined her
swollen ankle, asking, "Babe, you need to see a doctor?"

"I don't think so...but hey, what are you doing here? I got your
tape, just yesterday as a matter of fact, and thought you were
dug in with the troops over in Saudi Arabia?"

He stood, began pacing. "I was, and I'm going back soon. But
the network wanted me to take a break, and then they're
hoping to get me into Iraq, maybe Bagdad, where Peter Arnett
is still holding down the fort."

Helen marveled at his enthusiasm, his daring nature and studied
him intently. He was more handsome than ever, a slight tan on
his face, mellow brown eyes, the perfectly square jawline, his
brown hair wind-tossed. He wore an informal but habitual dark
leather jacket and jeans, which were casually appealing. He'd
been wearing that jacket on the newscasts, a protective wool
muffler wrapped around his neck, thrown on haphazardly; it
gave him an anxious, unstudied appearance, as though he hadn't
time to worry over clothing. And something about his
appearance seemed to have worked; he'd been termed the
current media heart-throb by women coast-to-coast...even
rating Johnny Carson's jokes and celebrity status now, his
name a household word.

He held up both hands, said, "Hon, I know that intense
scrutiny. I swear, I had nothing to do with all those women who
wrote me, nothing at all. And as for my career, I am a
journalist first and foremost. All the media hoopla is way out
of proportion."

But just the same, Helen caught his wicked gleam of male pride;
he was the current media news star, and she couldn't begrudge
him that. As for the women, he was fatally attracted to them,
and she knew it was pointless to chide him. She asked, "Are you
sure you should be here, leaving the front for some other
intrepid young reporter to steal your thunder?"

He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Babe, one of the
anchors is doing a short stint. The boss was a little antsy about
me, a mere field reporter, getting all the attention, I guess."
He laughed and pulled her against him, saying, "I've missed you
honey."

Helen was overjoyed by his presence, so glad she wasn't alone
anymore. She allowed him to lift her up in his arms, lay her on
the bed and as she watched him sit down on the edge, she asked,
"Are you sure you want to be involved with me?"

He paused, rubbed his chin reflectively and stared at her with
a tender, open expression of caring. "Cricket, we have our
differences, we can't live together, but you know we are still
good, close friends."

She felt tears in her eyes, looked away, overcome by his
emotional openness. Why couldn't she be as vulnerable, as open
with her real feelings, express them candidly?

Intuitively, he said, "I understand. You never were one to open
up."

Then he lay down beside her, saying, "I'm bushed, need to rest.
Let's just take a little nap, okay?"

Helen wondered if Curtis could help save her sanity? For now
she recognized her onslaught of mental problems as serious,
detrimental to her future work.

Somehow, she had to confront the underlying psychological
conflicts that had gotten her to the point of emotional
breakdown -- and maybe Curtis could help? But her thoughts
ended as she fell into an uneasy sleep beside her former
husband.

               End Chapter Six
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


             Chapter Seven

Sunday was a rainy, dreary day; Helen couldn�t find the
momentum to get out of bed, and Curtis didn�t help matters. He
insisted on preparing breakfast, bringing it to her on a tray,
chatting as they ate. Later, he lay alongside her telling more
war tales, and as the rain drummed on the tin roof, she
wondered if perhaps the war mania had partly been to blame
for her own mental turmoil? But she didn't yet ask Curtis
about this.

By dark, Helen had finally insisted Curtis help her to the sofa,
her ankle sore but rapidly healing. She sat there, watching him
build a fire and tell her he�d have to leave Monday morning �
his hopes of securing a flight into Bagdad was now of primary
importance. She was reluctant to broach the subject of her
mental confusion, but at last said, �Curtis, uh...there�s something
I need to tell you.�

�Yeah babe, shoot. I�m all ears.� He lifted the afghan,  got close
to her on the sofa and urged, �I�m listening.�

She swallowed hard, said, �Something odd has been happening
since I came here, it�s got me upset and unnerved.�

"Not you, babe. Surely you jest?� He chuckled, then saw her
serious expression and amended, �Sorry hon, it�s just that YOU
never get rattled. I was kidding."

"Maybe it�s the place, or just my being all alone, but since the
first day I arrived, there�s been some sort of mental
exhaustion with me, makes me confused and I..." She slipped
her hand into his, squeezed, and asked, "You won't think I'm
nuts, will you?"

His brown eyes searched her face. He said softly, "Of course
not. I know you are the most stable, rational person in my
life."

She let out a short laugh. "That may be changing..."

"Oh, how so?"

"This is difficult to talk about, since I've not even attempted
to verbalize what I've been experiencing." Helen stared at the
dancing fireshadows on the walls. "Curtis, I've been hearing
voices, seeing things that don't exist...or if they did, they keep
disappearing."

He couldn't prevent his mouth dropping open, but quickly
closed it and said, "Hon, what do you mean?"

"From the first day here, I had this "feeling" ...and you know
how I always detested that kind of vague explanation for
mysterious occurrences. But it's true, and I...I'm at a loss for
further description. I have seen freakish writing on a
disconnected processor screen; I have conversed with and seen
a man who apparently doesn't exist; I have heard a voice on a
tape that later wasn't there; I have found a box of photos,
from an abandoned house near here, looked them over and
identified the man I talked with or at least one who is a past
relative of his, then lost the box, which seemed to disappear;
and last, I..." she gulped, struggled to maintain control.
"I...think I'm losing my mind, Curtis."

"Hon, look..." He wrapped his arms around her trembling body,
held her tightly. "Maybe there's a logical reason this seems to
be happening. Are you on any medication, losing sleep?"

"No, you know I hate narcotics, never drink liquor except
maybe wine on occasion. I...fear I'm going insane, becoming
psychotic and I need you, need your advice, your help." Her
voice had risen, almost a hysterical tremor in it.

Curtis held her more tightly, said, "Sure babe, anything for
you. Hon, maybe if you describe these mysterious things, tell
me what the voice is saying..."

"Oh, it's surreal! Something like Biblical verses, that archaic
language, flowery and insubstantial ramblings, about a
presence, about me following willingly...and it's so stupid. I am
the last person on earth to have religious/spiritual visions,
so...I must be nuts."

He tipped up her chin, studied her face and asked, "Hon, the
man...?"

"No, he doesn't claim to be God, or Jesus Christ. In fact, I'm
not sure he doesn't exist. I first saw him in that old house
down in the valley, you know just below here?"

"I noticed it, the place looked deserted."

"It is, I think. But the first day, I saw him out back burning
brush, then later had several encounters with him, even told me
his name, Kent McCord. He came here when I was experiencing
those strange things, told me he "felt" I needed his guidance
and help. I was skeptical, didn't admit what I was seeing or
hearing...yet later, I had this incredible trust in him, but when
I went in search of him, he wasn't there. Truthfully, the house
seemed uninhabited, and I...I felt like a fool being in it, for
even thinking he was there at all.�

Curtis, perplexed, stood and began pacing. His face was
creased in a frown, and he rubbed his chin pensively. "Helen,
could someone be playing games with you, trying to jerk you
around and cause you to leave, not wanting you here? Or...do
you have any enemies back in Birmingham, at the magazine,
others who would profit by your absence permanently?"

She shook her head. "I thought of that, and searched the house
here for any such trappings. Couldn't find anything, and
besides, who would want to harm me?"

"No one that I know of, but your atheistic standpoint, writing
articles against religion, it could cause fanatics to want to
harm you, rise up against what they see as an anti-christ, or
some such bullshit. Babe, this is the ultra-conservative South,
with deep-seated religious bias, and a dogmatic, prejudice
Christian majority population. Surely your work hasn't gone
unnoticed by those religious zealots?" He paused, went down on
one knee, took her hands and added, "The reason you are here
is to write a blasphemous book, denouncing religious tax-free
establishments...and that could anger the wrong sort of folks."

She had to admit he had a valid point; but the kind of
experiences she'd had were so patently peculiar, so complex to
perform that it didn't seem remotely possible anyone could
have set her up for this scenario. "Curtis...do you think I
should see Dr. Ansel?"

"Do you feel you need to?" He sat down by her, looked into her
eyes, sighed.

"Yes, I do. I mean, my regular therapy sessions ended
officially a year after my parents death, and I thought I'd
dealt with grief, the loss and all...but, maybe these symptoms
are delayed reactions, or connected to our divorce somehow?"

"Well, why don't you see him then? I'm going back to
Birmingham tomorrow and you can follow along. I'll get a flight
to Atlanta after you talk with Dr. Ansel, see what he says. Is
your ankle healed or do you need a look-see at that too?"

She felt her swollen ankle; it was almost painless, and she
shook her head, allowing only a session with Dr.Ansel would he
necessary. However, now Helen knew that she'd missed Curtis
even more than she was willing to acknowledge; he always
managed to be realistic but caring, openly sharing his emotions,
thoughts, opinions. Without his presence occasionally, she
tended to hold everything inside, and perhaps that was why it
was overflowing now, tears burning her eyes as she began to
cry, soothing tears that Curtis didn't seem to mind as he lifted
her in his arms, took her back to the bed.

                             *  *  *  *  *  *

Helen had a long, cleansing session with Dr. Ansel. In his most
professional voice he told her that pent-up emotions could
contribute to distortions, but not to the extent she'd been
experiencing. He prescribed mild tranquilizers and told her to
spend a week in the city, mingle with friends, co-workers --
and get some much-needed companionship. Then he said if she
didn't absolutely need to return to Cider Mountain, it would be
best to avoid the isolation and seclusion which had apparently
brought on a panic attack, often associated with the term
"cabin fever."

When she kissed Curtis goodbye, he seemed confident her
sensational experiences had indeed been a panic-seizure and all
would be fine now. He joked around, told her not to go back to
the haunted hills. But as he said goodbye, she held him as though
he might never return. "Please be careful over there Curtis,
you are very special to me. You�re my best friend."

Curtis brushed a hand through her wavy hair, traced her face,
her lips and bent to kiss her lightly. Then his husky voice said,
"Honey, I'll be back, hell...maybe we�ll give romance another
chance someday...�

But at her look of dismay, he quickly amended, �Okay, good
friends it is. Love ya, kiddo.�

And then he was gone, striding across the Birmingham Airport
Terminal, disappearing down the ramp, vanishing inside the
waiting Delta plane. She watched at the windows, saw him sit in
a windowseat, wave as the plane taxied out of sight toward the
runway. Her heart ached, and she had to fight back tears; they
were divorced, yes, but she would always hold him dear.

She spent the first week of February in her city apartment,
going out occasionally to visit with girl friends, having business
meetings with Jordan and the magazine staff, discussing
various aspects for future layouts, articles she'd assigned to
writers.

Jordan was solicitous and kept eyeing her curiously. Friday
night he insisted they dine at a restaurant both had frequented
in the past.

Jordan drove them to the establishment; he handled his Lincoln
expertly, weaving through the early evening traffic, finding a
parking slot nearby. As they emerged into the chill twilight, he
took her arm and said, "Helen, I've missed you."

"Please Jordan, don't. I'm only here to discuss Marianne's
piece on homeless shelters." She felt exposed in the garish
yellow light of a streetlamp.

They stood at the door briefly, the plain-styled exterior no
indication of what they saw when they went inside: a posh little
salon, sparkling matched crystal chandeliers from the once
famous Henrici's of old Chicago, the original metal tile ceiling,
curved mahogany bar, and exquisite matched stained-glass
windows where they were ushered to a cozy corner table.

Jordan was a regular, and as such was accorded special
treatment. He ordered them both rare steaks, all the trimmings
and then sat back, asking, "Helen, what is wrong?"

She gazed appreciatively at the Victorian capsule in which
they dined; it pleased her immensely, and she felt suddenly
relaxed. "Oh Jordan, I just had some strange sensations at the
house, back on Cider Mountain. Absurd, really. I needed to get
my feet back on city pavement, see friends, hear the noise of
people and traffic..."

He seized the opening: "What kind of strange sensations? I
never felt anything unusual there, just the comfort of nature."

"Nothing, really. Jordan, what do you think of the Gulf War,
you've said little on it since I got back."

That did it. He expounded at length on how sadistic Saddam
Hussein was, how our country should rid the world of him; then
elaborated on the continuing success of the military, our air
raids and bombardment of Iraqi troops, the inevitable
conquering of such brutal dictatorships and ugly weaponry
tactics like biological and chemical warfare.

Helen listened, occasionally commenting as he paused: they
were served, and ate companionably. When Helen asked about
his family, he freely told her about his two sons, their teenage
problems, and then as they were leaving, he suddenly said,
"Helen, you never told me exactly what the problem was at
Cider Mountain, why you left? Are you going back soon?"

And as they drove through the artificially-lit streets of
Birmingham, she heard herself saying adamantly, "Yes, I'm
driving back there Sunday."

He listened to her outlined details on the book; he was very
attentive, but she wouldn't allow him to come into her
apartment, instead giving him a slight peck on the cheek, and
saying, "I'm fine Jordan, just fine. I needed a break, that's
all."

Watching him leave, she felt confident her words were true,
but only by returning to Cider Mountain could she prove to
herself that her sanity was still intact. As an afterthought, she
flushed the tranquilizers down the toliet, determined to survive
without narcotics.

                       End Chapter Seven
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


       Chapter Eight

Monday morning, Helen was up early; she watched the sunrise
beyond mountaintops, and vowed to work more diligently on her
manuscript. After having a cup of coffee, she sat at the
processor. Reviewing her notes, she revised and edited at
random, reread the chapters and decided to draft a more
detailed outline.

Hard at work, she didn't hear the yowling cat until it came to
her back door. Hurriedly, she let in the wet cat, asking "What
on earth happened to you Leo?"

The cat gave her an indignant look, heading for the fireplace,
although there was no fire. Helen followed, grabbing some
paper towels and soothing the cat by drying it, and cooing her
concern.

It seemed the creature was hungry, so she sat out milk and
some hamburger meat, having bought groceries on her way back
from Birmingham; it ate ravenously, occasionally giving her a
plaintive meow or reproachful look. She'd not forgotten the
cat during her trip away, but felt it had other means of
survival, possibly even another home.

Back at the processor, Helen put in a fresh floppy disk, got it
initialed by the machine and then opened a new file. When she
saw the screen begin to fill with words, she steeled herself,
turning away deliberately. But curiosity got the better of her,
and she found herself reading a poem:

FEELING OVERFLOWING

What streams into my being This bittersweet sound Brimming
to overfull My heart of emotions As I sing strongly Of passion
and compassion?

What streams into my being This lostness, vaguely haunting
Feelings of sorrowful sadness?

What streams into my being From somewhere I can't define
Faraway and beyond mortal design Coming closer, closer to my
soul?

What streams into my being Pouring blue through me An echo
from some distant shore Overflowing feeling as I hear Your
mysterious voice?

What streams into my being--A rapture of release Freedom
given from a universal source I can never know, only feel.

Helen gasped, having never seen this poetry before! It was
chilling in some indefinable way. She quickly reread it, and felt
a hot/cold reaction. Had someone been in the house, put this on
a disk? If so, who? Kent? And why?

The message wasn't clear, but it seemed an indication that
"feeling" was required to decipher what it meant...not just
intellectual thought.

Rubbish, gibberish, doggerel she declared the poem. She
pushed the line-out key, but nothing happened. Upset and angry
now, she snapped out the disk, and turned off the machine.
Mercifully, the screen went blank, and she stood, agitated and
confused. Only here overnight, surely she wasn't manifesting
panic-attacks so soon?

Helen looked around, saw Leo curled up in a rocker, eyes
rounded with almost human knowing. She went to the closet, got
her jacket and camera. Enough of the house, she would take a
long walk and clear her head of ridiculous illusions.

Outside, it was warmer than usual for February. She was glad
the sun appeared like a welcoming globe overhead, and started
off at a fast clip across the backyard, hurrying to the edge of
the woods. Then she stood poised with indecision; it looked
dark, damp in the forest. She turned toward a path that led to
a small open area Jordan had cleared for a garden plot. He'd
told her he hoped to plant tomatoes, and a variety of
vegetables if his wife would accompany him here for the
summer.

Helen stood motionless, hearing birds chattering busily, seeing
a squirrel scampering on tree limbs above; she breathed
deeply, sighed and went downhill, toward the road. Once there,
she found herself heading rapidly along the highway, down to
the first curve, onward toward the bend where she could see
below to the place Kent's presence had first caught her
attention.

Stopping to rest, she sat down on a fallen log from the woods,
and peered off into the bright blue skyline, then her eyes
dropped to the valley. An open field was suddenly shadowed by
newly-arrived clouds, sunlight and shade playing tag across the
landscape. Her emotions now calmer, she stood, and then
noticed a man emerge from the wooded hills, walk into that
open field, and stare off vaguely in the direction of the
ramshackle house.

She took out her camera, tramped into the woods, fighting
underbrush, no path here. She struggled to get through the
winter-dried, tangled vegetation and hurried along,
undisturbed by viney brush or low-hanging scratchy limbs,
finally coming closer to the lower field. She hovered beside a
thick-clustered pine, looking out through the over-lapped
limbs, and watching the man.

He had on a calf-length overcoat, a wide-brimmed hat that
shadowed his face, but when he turned in her direction to
slowly survey the area, she saw it was indeed Kent McCord.
This was her chance to prove his very real existence, and she
aimed the 35mm camera lens, focused it on him, snapped,
snapped again and kept snapping as he moved around, getting
shots of him from all directions, all angles. Satisfied, she put
the camera away and then emerged from her hiding place,
shouting, "Kent, hey...it's me, Helen."

He pivoted, tilted his hat back and lifted a hand in greeting.
She walked toward him, studying the substantial size of him,
his bearded face, the almost unreal light gray eyes. He grinned,
looking at her with one bushy eyebrow arched, his eyes like
bullets shooting into her very being.

He said, "So, we meet again?"

Now within a few feet of him, Helen stopped, said, "My
goodness, I just realized who you resemble! You definitely look
like the Bridges brothers. Not Beau or Jeff exactly, but a new
combination."

"Bridges brothers, don't believe I know those boys, lady."

"Helen, remember?"

"Didn't know if I should call you by your given name, since you
seem to have doubts about my character."

She slung her camera bag over her shoulder, looked up into his
charming but ironic expression, the face of a thousand masks.

"Beau and Jeff Bridges, they are exceptionally talented
actors. Surely you've seen their movies?"

"Hmm, sorry, still don't know them." He yawned, putting a hand
over his mouth, eyes closing. "Sorry, guess I'm tired. Been off
hiking."

"Oh? I didn't know you were a hiker?" She realized this could
be the explanation for his frequent absences.

"Yes, I've been gone over a week...like to explore and study
nature. I was once a..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind. It isn't important." He looked at her raptly a
moment, then amended, "Well, maybe it is, Helen. I was once a
trapper."

"Isn't that illegal here?" She felt bewildered in the embrace
of his steady gaze.

"It is now, but...at one time it was the only means of survival in
these hills."

She backed away, uncomfortable suddenly; he moved closer and
said, "Can't you see I'm not a threat to you?"

"I...there's, uh, something about you, something I can't
define...that makes me feel...well, a little ill at ease."

"Something you FEEL, but can't put into words?"

She shook her head furiously, reminded of the spooky message
earlier on the processor, exclaiming, "No! That's not what I
meant."

"Sure it is. And you should acknowledge it, because if you
don't, you are going to think you are losing your mind."

"Oh...how'd you know about that, about my...?" She sank down,
finding a rock to sit on and succumbing to utter confusion.

He moved very near her, touched her hair and said in a soft,
calming voice, "Helen, don't be afraid. Verily I say to ye, trust
and be as little lambs, innocent and helpless. I come to bring
you wisdom and light, love and peace. This is my mission, from
the past, from the other side."

She was falling, falling into a deep, deep trance; her eyes
moved up to his face, and he continued with hypnotic words,
"Verily, I too am lost in this world, for I come here only as
destined...I was, am, trying to fulfill my appointment and..." He
paused, reflecting on her mesmerized eyes, her obedient face;
it was impossible to do this objectively, and he knew it from
the beginning.

She rose, leaned into his arms. He mumbled, "I was afraid this
might happen."

He led her into the woods. She went willingly, and they walked
down the straw-littered path, about a half-mile until he
stopped by a clear-water creek, and sat her down on a tree
stump, snapped his fingers rapidly in front of her eyes.

Helen, startled out of the trance, jumped up and screamed, her
loud shrieks piercing the forest stillness. He grabbed her,
pulling her into his arms. "It's okay, don't be afraid. Helen..."

Stunned, she moaned, "Where am I?" He tilted up her chin,
forced her to look into his face, and said, "I brought you here,
I need to share everything with you, I can't..." his voice broke,
and she seemed to suddenly to understand his pain, his
aloneness, the aching loneliness in him that had never been
expressed.

An involuntary groan, tortured and lost, escaped him as he
realized again his existence was molded from the fabric of
time itself, and he could never escape his fate.

Helen, now awkwardly aware of him, of being here for some
ultimate reason, asked, "What can I do? Are you responsible
for the strange things happening to me?"

And now she knew the meaning of intuition � she "felt" a
purpose, an eerie undercurrent between them, unspoken and
unable to be voiced. No intellectual rationalizing could explain
it, rather her whole being sensed this deep connection to Kent
McCord.

He slumped down on a rock, took off his hat, rubbed a hand
over his beard, sighed wearily. "Helen, I'm trapped forever in
this...ah, how I can I speak of it? It happened long ago, back in
1896, it just..."

"The old photos, that was you? And your wife, child? The
photos were of you and your family?"

"Yes...it was, well, tragic, what happened to my wife and child.
They drowned, in this very creek..."

In spite of herself, Helen shuddered. She looked fearfully at
the clear sparkling water, now vividly imagining death,
drowning and unspeakable pain.

He swept his arms wide, gesturing toward the creekbank. "My
little girl, she fell in. Mary jumped in, tried to save her, but it
was after a terrible flooding. The creek was swollen high up
this bank, and they both drowned in the rushing waters."

"How horrid! I'm so sorry," Helen heard herself say, fully
aware she was supposedly talking to a man who either had died
long ago, or was mentally deranged and imagining he was
someone from the past.

"No, you are wrong Helen. I am not a ghost, nor am I
deranged."

Chills ran over her. Once again, he'd read her thoughts
accurately. She shrugged, said, "Sorry, I...this is so..."

"Unbelievable, yes...but it's happening, and not in some fantasy
delusion of yours either. I am here, at least right now I am."

"What do you mean?"

"After my wife and child died, I wanted to die. I came here
often, and thought of suicide. I was...hurting, lonely, lost. Once,
sitting right on that stump, I saw a vapor, a mist coming off the
creek water, and thought it was their souls...I even got a photo
of it, which you saw."

"Yes..."

He turned to the creek, stared as though puzzled, then came to
her, asked, "Can you trust me, believe what I'm about to tell
you?"

"I promise to try."

He put a hand to his forehead, frowned deeply and said, "Helen
I'm a prisoner of immortality, it seems. You see, I...am...well,
from another dimension, and although I can come here, speak to
humans alive now, I can't stay. I return to the other side and
I..."

He swallowed, tried to form words for his agony. "I am so...so
alone there, and here too."

She stared silently, touched by his emotional pain -- but was
this real? Was it really happening, or was it all in her mind?
Suddenly she went to him, reached out a hand and ran it over
his beard, felt the softness, felt his lips and knew at this exact
moment, he was flesh-and-blood real. She mused, "But...I can
touch you, so you must be here!"

"I am...but...I can't stay. I never can. I must and will return to
that gray land, between the dark and light." He pushed her
away, turned his back to her. "Mavis and Mert tried to help
me, and...well, they weren't capable. It's here, at this creek,
that the secret dwells -- a doorway to another dimension."

Helen looked around at the natural beauty, the peaceful
surroundings of woods, water, sky and land...it seemed nothing
extraordinary.

"But it is," he said, staring at her.

"How do you do that?"

"Read your thoughts? I just can, that's all. I can't go
backwards in time, but I am sent here sometimes to help the
cause of goodness, never to harm anyone. For example, I knew
you felt you were going crazy, and that my messages were
about to harm you, so I retreated."

"You can enter the other dimension at will?"

"No, only with permission from those who guide me. But I yearn
for this place, the natural world and yet, if I stay too long,
I'm taken back to the other side by some unknown means."

"This is...so..." Helen couldn't even put it into words. It all
seemed so fantastically weird. In fact, she wondered if she
were having a delusion, a schizophrenic hallucination?

Kent shook his head, no, and then as if to reassure her, he took
her in his arms and held her close. She could feel his beating
heart, feel the warmth of him, smell that familiar tobacco scent
and wanted to help him somehow, relieve the agony she'd seen in
his face.

He breathed into her hair, said hoarsely, "I was afraid I'd
feel this way toward you. I've been so lonely, so...awfully
alone."

"I have too, I understand." Helen lifted her lips to meet his.
They kissed, and he mumbled as his lips moved down her neck,
"Oh woman, I shouldn't feel this..."

"Passion, urgency and need? Why not, I feel it too Kent."

He took off his long overcoat, spread it on the forest floor and
lowered her down on it, lay beside her, asking, "Please, woman,
hold me?"

There were no protests from Helen and they began a descent
into a sensual world that needed nothing other than physical
touch, passionate feeling and uninhibited expression between
man and woman.

                                    *  *  *  *  *  *

Later, Helen awoke, disheveled and alone in the wet, dark
woods. She could still feel his presence, and as she licked her
lips she tasted the vaguely pungent tobacco, feeling her face
tender, scratched by his beard...but he was gone, and she stood,
pulling on her jacket.

Only when she reached the house did she begin to question the
experience: Had it actually occurred, or had she hallucinated
the whole episode?

Fortunately, she clasped the camera bag to her and realized
for once she had proof of the man's existence! When the
photos were developed, she could finally quit worrying about
her sanity!

                           End Chapter Eight
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

                  Chapter Nine

Helen went to bed, too drained to even attempt a shower.
She'd let Leo out on her way in, and just as she drifted off to
sleep, remembered she had not even watched the latest news on
the Gulf War today.

When she awoke, it was difficult to come out of a deep, deep
slumber. As she looked at the bedside digital clock, she
couldn't believe what she saw: It was now Wednesday
noontime....she'd been asleep an entire night, day and additional
night!

Helen lay there, stunned. Her body felt weighted down,
sluggish and too heavy to move; just turning her head seemed
like a impossible maneuver. She saw Leo at the bedroom
window, staring into the house, meowing.

Forcing herself to sit up, she eased her body to the edge of the
bed, put her feet on the ice-cold floor and managed to get up,
stand and stretch. She felt ill, her stomach nauseous and her
head woozy as she struggled toward the front door, opened it
and let Leo inside. The cat raced to the fridge, sat there
glaring at her accusingly.

"Sorry old boy, I've been..." What had happened to her? She
could only vaguely recall Kent, the wooded rendezvous and
then, something about...

Leo leapt onto the table, yowling. She got his dish, saw the milk
inside the fridge was soured, and instead looked around for the
box of dry cat food. While she soothed the hungry cat, she
tried to remember what had caused her such physical
exhaustion, such a lengthy slumber? In fact, it was the second
time she'd lost account of days, sleeping far too long and
feeling disorientated upon awakening.

As the cat ate, she made strong black coffee and stood looking
out the kitchen windows; it was clear, windy and dry leaves
rattled along the ground. Her mouth tasted bad, and she
realized her hair was oily. While the coffee perked, she went
and took a scouring shower, washing her hair, scrubbing her
body.

The brisk water seemed to make her mind alert. As she dressed
in corduroy slacks and sweater, she saw her camera bag and it
all came rushing back: Taking shots of Kent, being lured into
the woods, their lovemaking...Or had that only been a dream?
Had she merely dreamed while sleeping so long?

Helen blow-dried her hair, then grabbed the camera bag.
Looking at the camera, she saw the entire roll had been taken;
she hurriedly found a photo mailer, prepared it, and ran out to
place the package in the mailbox. If she'd actually seen this
man, now she'd have proof! And although going into the nearest
small town to a photomat would get the negatives developed
faster, she trusted the Brimingham lab where her photography
work had always been processed to her satisfaction.

Was it possible there existed another dimension alongside this
one? Helen pondered this as she cooked bacon, eggs and toast,
ate hungrily and drank coffee. Was there such a possibility?
Even scientist of quantum physics had some theories about co-
existing dimensions, the fabric of time/space, speculations on
wormholes, so it was at least a valid idea. And yet, as she
recalled Kent's words, it confused her worse. After all, being a
skeptic, the world of unproven scientific theories was not her
territory, although she had a fundamental understanding of the
problems with a parallel universe existing.

So how had she gotten involved in this mess? The question of
her sanity still remained; Helen couldn't dismiss the possibility
she was having hallucinations/delusions...but if so, why? Had
she pursued arbitrary intellectualizing until the very act of
relentless realism had driven her mad?

She got up, drained the last of her coffee, put away the dishes
and stroked Leo, lifted the cat in her arms and went to stare
out the front windows. The food had given her some strength,
but she still felt weakened and dazed. No work today, she
thought. Instead she turned on the new TV, curled up on the
sofa and waited for a news update.

At two, a newscaster came on and announced that the air war
was continuing, that all military commanders maintained the
war was on schedule and soon lraq would allow other journalist
into Bagdad.

Helen sighed, knowing Curtis would attain his objective. She
could just imagine him charming his way around the war-torn
city, managing to secure a fresh angle even under the watchful
Iraqi censors -- and reluctantly, she admitted she was proud of
him. Curtis was a reporter, a seeker of truth...and she'd always
felt herself inclined similarly, but now? Was truth an
individual, subjective determination,
ideal?

As the windows darkened, Helen closed the drapes, feeling that
creepy, eerie sensation that made her uneasy. Then Leo seemed
to sense something; he went to the door, scratched until she let
him out, and disappeared into the dusky evening. Helen stood
motionless, the wind sweeping across the porch, rushing in the
door, through her hair, chilling her to the bone.

It was growing colder so she built a fire from a stack of cut
wood, and made hot chicken noodle soup, cheese and crackers,
then sat before the TV eating, thinking. She had the strangest
lethargy, a feeling that nothing mattered, that her work was
unimportant, insignificant. Where before she always had avid,
enthusiastic determination and motivation, now it all felt
pointless.

Nevertheless, she made herself look over interview notes, take
out a book on constitutional law and study it, trying to occupy
her mind more purposefully. The hours passed; she found it was
near ten, and put away the jotted notes, the research facts
she'd unearthed.

Turning the TV on, she listened and watched the sounds of war:
another Scud missile attack on Israel and Saudi Arabia, some
residential buildings demolished in Tel Aviv, people injured and
possible deaths. She wondered if Hussein was conquerable?

Was he, as President Bush said, Hitler revisited? All the
destructiveness, the suffering and violence.. .could witnessing
all this be causing her mental distress to the point of ha cope
with war, with violence and the unstable, dangerous real world?
How frightening, she thought, to be a victim of her own mental
confusion, her helplessness, when she'd always prided herself
on being able to handle reality! It seemed that she would have
to leave here after all...if nothing else, just to save her sanity!

Remembering Kent's words, she realized he'd not really
answered her question about the mysterious messages on the
computer nor the prophetic voices, the spiritual dreams...and
she wondered if he was also the victim of a greater force?
He'd hinted at that kind of mission, that kind of fated trap for
himself, and alluded to the region here being at fault. Could
this mountain be situated at the threshold of some unknown
dimension, the open doorway to it?

And if so, how had he first entered it? The creek, that misty
glaze that he'd shown in a photo, was that a key to
understanding? Or had he actually attempted suicide and thus
accidentally been taken into that realm? He said it was a
'gray' land, and sounded as though he was sad there; but she
also got the impression it was serene and peaceful, unlike this
the human condition.

But if it was lovely there, a utopia, why want to return to this
side? Helen suddenly jumped up, began pacing and muttering to
herself. Was this insanity? Trying to fathom insubstantial,
meaningless and twisted passages that only existed in one's
mind?

She gave up, and went back to the unmade bed, crawled
underneath the covers and immediately fell asleep.

The dream whispered like summer sunshine into her mind:

She was walking in a land of white, white skies, white earth,
softspun sunlight glowing on her fluttery chambray dress,
windy and warm, the white-sandy seashore, bleached-topped
waves rolling onto the foam-lined beach...and she was walking
quietly, feeling at peace, calm as the endless white landscape.
She could make out an image ahead: A tall man, dressed in a
three-piece white linen suit, was coming toward her, but she
couldn't determine his facial features, they were a blur, yet
she felt immensely drawn to him...walking, walking and then
running, running and shouting his name, "Wait Kent, wait!" as
she felt herself lifting, higher and higher, hearing a throbbing
sound like the waves, but different, resounding through the
soundless seascape...beckoning, "Verily I say to ye, trust and
ye shall know the truth."

Helen awoke, drenched in sweat, startled, disorientated and as
she tried to stand, her body felt like lead, and she stumbled
into the den, fell on the sofa, moaning incoherently.

She never heard the knock on her door, never saw Kent coming
to help her...

               End Chapter Nine
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

                        Chapter Ten

Kent gently lifted Helen into his arms, carried her to the bed,
covered her and sat there, sobbing. He knew she was barely
conscious, and cursed himself for having taken her to the edge
of madness.  It was his fault, and he felt responsible. His voice
begged, "Ye bring me misery but, please, ye shall not drive the
woman to insanity."

Helen moaned, her head slowly turning toward him; she opened
her eyes, amazed. "Kent, oh...I'm so sick, I ache all over and I
think I've got a fever."

"Yes, you have a cold. I've come to care for you. It's my fault,
our time in the woods, damp and cold, probably caused this."

He went to the bathroom, brought back a warm washcloth and
sponged her sweaty forehead, tenderly removing wet hair off
her face. "Forgive me, I never meant you harm."

She was aware of the concern, his incredibly profound caring
from those light-gray eyes, depthless and penetrating. "'Why,
how did. . .you. . .know?"

"I felt you needed me, so I came back. There's so much I need
to tell you, so much I can give you...leave you when I'm gone.�

"Please, don't leave me. I'm so lonely, so...afraid. I...am I going
crazy, is this the way insanity starts?" She clutched his broad
callused hands, holding on tightly, looking at him with pained
eyes.

"No, you aren't losing your mind, I'm real and here with you,
see?" He leaned to kiss her cheek, murmur in her ear, "I've
done the worst thing possible  � I've fallen in love with you,
and we can never be together."

Helen closed her eyes, breathing him into herself, wanting to
hold this loving, poignant moment forever. His touch, his
strength was mingled with something inimitable and mysterious,
almost an otherworldly aura, gentleness and love, a spiritual
all-encompassing oneness that enveloped her. She said, "I...I
feel so whole, so alive, so different, like there is
this...beautiful, glowing connection to you."

"Yes, that's how it is on the other side: A wholeness and unity
with every single element, as though nothing separates, just
blends and blends until we are invisible, like light and sunshine
in air." He looked at her feverish face, placed the folded cloth
on her forehead. "But now you must rest. I'll be here and we'll
talk later, sleep my sweet."

And Helen felt herself flowing with warmth and absolute
stillness...going into deep sleep.

Kent watched her peaceful face, the gradual pink tint coming
back into her skin, health coursing from his healing hands to
her body...and he whispered urgently, "Ye bring the source, the
power of healing to Helen. She will believe, she will."

When Helen awoke, she felt refreshed and healthy. She looked
around the morning-bright bedroom, the sunshine filtering
through closed drapes, Leo curled up on the bed. And then she
recalled Kent being with her, called, "Kent? Are you here?"

He came into the room, bigger than life, so tall he had duck
below the doorframe; his plaid shirt, faded jeans and boots
looked familiar and dear to Helen. She struggled to sit, holding
the blanket over her and saying, "Oh I'm so happy you stayed!"

"Helen, I'm sorry I caused you to be ill..."

"It was just as much my fault. I went willingly into the forest
with you, and I..." she paused, suddenly shy but determined to
speak her mind. "I wanted you too."

He took out a rolled cigarette, lit it and turned to the windows,
pulled back the drapes, and peered out as he smoked. "It was
more than the dampness and cold...it was being with me that
made you sick, and the lingering drowsiness, your
weakness...that was from being a part of someone from the
other side. It dazed you, and...I'm not sure what else it did.
But I've made sure you are healed."

She was now out of bed, pulling on a robe and going quickly to
his side, forcing him to look at her. "How?"

He stared at her, the grayish eyes alight with superior
knowing. He held the cigarette in his lips, one eyebrow cocked
and smoke curling out of his slightly-open mouth. "You'd not
comprehend my explanation, indeed it is impossible to be put
into language, but just know that I was able to heal you."

Unable to hide her frustration any longer, Helen slapped him,
knocking his head sideways, his cigarette almost falling out, him
grabbing it, startled and unable to say a word. She declared,
"How dare you? I want to know exactly why you are here, why
you are trying to make me crazy? Who sent you, and why? Was
it the religious community, the fanatics?"

Rubbing his face, Kent walked calmly to a table, got an ashtray
and put out the cigarette, all the time staring levelly at her.
"So...you don't believe anything I've told you? You persist in
being a pragmatic, skeptical human?"

"Either you tell me this moment why you are trying to drive me
mad, or I'll...I'll go for the authorities!" She knew this had to
be the answer. Curtis had guessed it correctly, someone was
behind this fiasco --  and this man was standing here
pretending to be from another dimension, when in reality he
was probably hired to play this part. "You are a fine actor, I
give you four stars, but..."

He advanced to her, his boots jarring the floor. He grabbed
her, and shook her gently, saying, "Listen to me woman, I didn't
choose for this to happen and you will believe, you will believe
me...you must. I have been sent here, but not by sinister
humans, by a greater force than we either understand. You are
a writer, and I...I have been sent to help you voice their
message, for the enlightenment of humans."

Helen felt her temper flare, and snapped, "You are hurting
me!"

He let her go, and she staggered, leaning against the windows,
crying, "Get out, get out of my house!"

Kent shook his head, rubbed his beard and sat down on the bed,
holding his head in his hands. "Helen, listen...all I've told you is
truth, I did accidentally go over to the other side, and I'm
trapped there. But over there...a force of some sort, a good,
benevolent force, guides me. I've tried to reach others, some I
have convinced, like Mert and Mavis. But with you, from the
first, I felt something I shouldn't have: physical attraction.
Since going there, I haven't experienced my full physical self
and I...let it get the best of me. I wanted you, and when I was
there, I couldn't forget you, the feel, the sight, the touch of
you. Oh, I knew it was condemned, and I fought against it...but
I..."

He paused, looked at her and added, "None of this matters
really. I still have a mission, and that is to get you to believe in
me. And...then I was instructed to help you write a book, a
book which will give mankind hope and faith..."

"You mean like the banal writing I saw on my word processor
screen, and have heard in voices, dreamed in dreams?"

"Yes, it was suggested you would sense our presence and I'd
only have to help you with the particular details. It is true
that both spiritual truths and your atheistic messages are for
the betterment of mankind, but humans, at this time, are more
accepting of supernatural influences than realism, at least the
majority."

He stood, came to her and reached to touch her flushed face.
"I've done the unforgivable. I've come here and fallen in love,
and now I'm torn between two worlds. Once you go to the
other side, you cannot return permanently, it is forbidden."

Helen studied his sincere expression, wondering if he was mad,
insane himself, perhaps an escaped mental patient? But he truly
looked as though he were telling the truth, or at least firmly
believed what he professed.

"No, I'm not insane. Helen, I...please, let me have a chance to
show you, to make you believe what I am saying?"

She trembled as he pulled her into his arms, felt a slow-glowing
tenderness, such an overwhelming sensation of love, peace,
wholeness in his arms...so irresistible. It was unlike anything
she'd ever experienced in reality, and even though her mind
told her she was losing a grip on sanity, she gave into his
persuasion and they walked to the bed, lay down and he began
to share his life.

"Helen, like I told you, I was shattered by my wife and
daughter's drownings. I had this wild idea, a "feeling" I could
communicate with them at that creek...and I would go there,
night and day, a vigil of staring at the waters. I was slowly
going crazy, and everyone tried to stop me from going there,
but I persisted. And then one night, after I'd fallen asleep, I
had a peculiar dream...felt I was in another world, a world of
light and brightness...awoke feeling peaceful and whole. I
figured I was over it, the grief had left me, so I went back
home...but for some reason, I continued to visit the creek, and
one day I saw that strange vapor, took photos. I even tried to
convince people there was a spiritual aura there, the misty fog
rising off the water my wife and daughter's souls...something
like that, but they scoffed and called me crazy."

"How old were you when this happened?" she asked, seeing his
eyes dreamy and lost to memory.

"I was thirty-four when they died. See, I felt something
strange there, and I kept returning...thinking I would find my
family. I never did, because in fact they had died, not gone
over. People don't enter the other dimension when they die,
although a few experience the white-heat passage tunnel, get a
glimpse of it, which I guess you may know as near-death
experiences. You have to be specially chosen to cross over."

"Then how did you manage to enter. Why were you chosen?"
She saw him tense, grow rigid and somehow colder.

"It was Christmas, and I had decided I would kill myself. I
took a rope down to the creekbank, tossed it over an oak and
got up on a stump, was about to hang myself in the noose when I
suddenly saw this...this...I don't think there's words to
describe it. I guess it was more of a feeling, but I was being
lifted, lifted and went higher, higher, my body becoming lighter
and lighter, I saw brilliant whiteness, blinding my vision..."

She mumbled, "I had a dream like that when I was sick."

"Yes, you were given a glimpse of it."

"So the entryway...it can't be pinpointed, or seen exactly?"

"Not really, it's more of a feeling, a sense that I am floating,
then flying and then I'm there. I never left that place for
many, many years, not until I had been tutored and taught
enough so that I could return here to foster goodness. I was
chosen because I had an open mind, had discovered the right
place to enter and kept trying to understand what it was."

He paused, adding, "Helen, it's always been thus. Where do you
think the Bible came from, the prophets, the most influential
men of all ages, Jesus Christ, Buddha, Emanuel Swedenborg,
Joseph Smith's Book of Mormon... I could go on and on from
the most ancient times to present day..."

She interrupted, "I....I always thought it was fiction,
fabrication...men who'd lost their minds, poets or visionaries
gifted with language skills they used to gain power over
others."

He turned to look down into her face. "No, the knowledge, the
wisdom was sent from the other side, and the only reason we
come back is to foster goodness, kindness, peace, love and to
help mankind reach the same superior status we have there."

He paused again, reflecting, "But we of the other side cannot
directly change the future, only patiently, gently guide
humanity toward wisdom. Then, eventually, prepare humankind
to merge with LIGHT, join our circle of eternity. Death is
unnecessary in our world because perfection exists. We of the
other side have helped bring visions to all your world's
spiritual leaders down through the ages. Some who were called
"prophets" were given their wisdom, and their messages became
printed legacies: The Koran, The Torah, The Old Testament,
The New Testament, The Talmud, The Tripitaka of Buddhism,
The Agama of Hinduism, The Zend--Anesta of Zoroastrianism,
The Veda of Brahamanism, The Book Of Mormon, all spiritual
books, guides -- yet often confusing and contradictory due
partly to our own inadequacies of the language barriers
between humans and the completely silent, telepathic
communications of the other side's inhabitants. In the
translations of so many human languages, there is bound to be
flaws; but down through the centuries, the other side has
learned and become more proficient, especially once humans
were taken there to help. Anyhow, it's time for another book
to bring all these divergent religions into a united one, into a
central core of global understanding, providing ONE belief all
will follow. They do have the same basic theme, but it will be
necessary to bring this out in clear, concise terms, create a
worldwide belief to consolidate all humans in their spirituality.
Not easy, a difficult undertaking, but the essence of which has
been already prepared through the World Goodwill, and the
United Nations, Unitarian Associations, even the current New
Age Movement.  You are to be the vessel of such a cohesive
book."

Helen was momentarily flattered, yet doubtful, and still
puzzled about him. "But...if there's no physical self...what are
you?" She didn't know if she believed this, but if it was a
delusion, it was an incredibly vivid imaginary experience.

He sighed, said slowly, "We are like light, air, or the invisible
force of gravity...insubstantial on the other side. But when I
return here, I am of flesh-and-blood, and though it has been
forbidden, I...still have sexual, emotional needs in this
dimension. Helen, I am a lawless one to have allowed myself the
pleasure of you." He found her lips, kissed her as though he
might drown in her wondrous, sensuous self.

She didn't protest, merely succumbed to his demanding,
relentlessly searching mouth; him trailing kisses over her face,
a moan catching in his throat. "I want you, and I can't help
myself."

"Pease don't stop..." she urged, moving with him, finding his
hard, muscled body a treasure of mounting passion.

As he undressed, then rejoined her, he said, "If I stay longer
than twenty-four hours at a time, I will dissolve, evaporate,
cease to exist in any dimension, I will die. But for now, for this
glorious moment, I am once again a thirty-four-year-old man
who is rent with desire, love and I am alive, the human I was in
1896, being a virile man....a real man. How I have yearned for
this, for no matter how serene, how perfect that other side
Helen, once you have been human, once you have lived and
loved...memory haunts you."

They began to make love, but with gentleness, tenderness and
rapture that blended their souls into ONE...as near perfection
as man and woman could attain in this lifetime here on earth.

               End Chapter Ten ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Chapter Eleven

Afterward, Helen fell asleep.

Kent slipped out of bed, and walked through the dark, quiet
house. He wanted desperately to feel part of this world, and
touched objects randomly, fingering the fabric of patchwork
quilts, lifting heavy crystal ashtrays in his hand, savoring the
addiction of tobacco nicotine, then wandering to the windows,
looking out at darkness, deep and silent.

Eventually he heard Helen call, "Kent...are you here?"

He walked to the bedroom, stood over her and said, "I have to
go soon, but I'll return tomorrow night. We need to go over the
book idea, let me give you some instructions from..."

"Please Kent, I... I can't accept that. I mean, I have a book
contract with a New York publishing house, and it has to be
fulfilled. If, and I do mean IF I wrote anything else, how could
I get it published?" Helen sat up, running a hand absently
through her tangled hair.

"Don't worry about that. The Way has been opened long ago, in
1922 through the founding of a non-profit, tax-exempt
spiritual, educational corporation in New York, which I
mentioned earlier." He bent to kiss her lightly on her forehead,
said, "I must leave. Sleep and rest, sweet Helen."

"Wait!" she called, but it was too late. He strode out of the
room and she heard the front door open, then close with
finality. The sound echoed lonely inside her heart, and she was
glad to see Leo come slinking into the room, pounce on the bed
and nudge her to be petted. "You silly cat, why can't you stay
put?"

Leo purred, then looked at her with clear green eyes as if to
say he understood. They lay down, the cat curling into her arms
and both falling into a restless sleep.

Helen dreamt she was falling, falling through empty space. It
was a void of endlessness, and stars whirled madly in the dark,
sparks flaring and dying, soundless soaring of pulsating,
strobing fire-flames. She sang out in a hoarse voice, "Help me,
help me I'm falling..." But her words died, disappeared in the
depthless void of nothingness. She wept, her tears wetting her
face, her heart aching with sadness. "Help me, I'm falling..."
But again, all she saw was the soft swirl of stars blinking in
blackness, whizzing past her, like a comet with its elongated
cosmic-trail of icy dust, singing, ringing, a siren in her brain.
"Help me, help me I'm falling..." And now, she listened to the
voiceless void, and finally heard a disturbing voice: "Helen,
fear not, ye art mine, a child of the Universe. Verily I send my
own to lead ye. Do not forsake the soul sent through the abyss,
for ye art in light, love and shall surrender as little helpless
lambs. Ye art our own, the voice of multitudes in a heart's
hope."

She awoke, screaming. The cat leaped onto the floor, hissed and
ran frantically out of the room. Helen muttered, "I've lost my
mind, I'm falling in love with a phantom, speaking and dreaming
of nonexistent matter...  I'm falling into insanity."

                                    *  *  *  *  *  *

Awakening the following morning, Helen knew she had to
attempt something solidly real, something energetic and
practical, so her obvious choice was to clean the house. While
munching a granola bar and drinking milk, she jotted down on a
calendar the past few weeks' activities, realizing with a jolt
that it was now February 15, Friday, and that time was slipping
past rapidly. Jordan expected a rough draft by the 23rd, to
show her progress.

It would be virtually impossible to deliver that, even if she
started this moment --and what of Kent's insistence she write
an entirely unreasonable book?

"I'm sick of this nutty business!" she declared to no one, since
the cat had been put out before her breakfast. Helen jumped
up, hurriedly bathed and dressed in faded jeans, loose
sweatshirt and tackled the cleaning with fervor.

As she dusted rugs, hung them on a platform out back, she
realized her health was robust and began humming as she ran
back inside, swept the floors, washed dishes, vacuumed and
then mopped the floors, feeling great. Each handmade item
caught her attention, and she took the patchwork quilts out to
air, then dusted the bird cage carefully, appreciative of each
clever, redone piece of antique furniture, tracing scrolled
corners in woodwork on the mantle over the fireplace, noticing
again the primitive watercolor painting of a man walking down
a path lined with abundantly flowering spring blossoms, his
wide-brimmed hat tilted at an angle, his back to the artist.

She stopped abruptly, her dustcloth poised beside the painting.
Something about the hat, the jeans...yes, even the same boots!
Although the man in the painting was walking away, his back to
the viewer, it most certainly was Kent McCord, and the artist's
signature was scrawled at the edge: Mavis! Disgusted with this
discovery, Helen threw the cloth across the room, and fumed,
"Why now? Can't I have a minute without him in my mind?"

She slumped down on the sofa, sat there dejectedly but finally
roused herself, forced her dark mood away, and grabbed the
cloth, finishing her dusting. The house fairly sparkled when she
quit at noon, a masterpiece of cleanliness. Satisfied with her
chores, she went out to the front porch, stood looking at the
unseasonably warm, mild day, then turned down one of the
wicker rockers, plopped down in it and began rocking, staring
at the well-cultivated shrubs, the rocked walkway, her car
parked in the small oval spot at the end of the yard.

She felt lazy, tired and rested for over an hour, content to do
nothing. The warm breeze wafted across the porch, and she
could hear distant bird calls, a few tree branches scraping in
the wind, and then she saw Leo come sauntering out of the
woods, meowing.

"You naughty cat, where you been?" Helen chided him, even as
she got up, stooped to lift it up in her arms, and ask, "You
hungry?"

As though on cue, Leo reached a paw to her chin and gave her a
thoughtful look. She took him inside, set out dry food and then
went to flick on the TV, immediately tuning into the latest Gulf
War update.

An excited, frenzied reporter was telling about the continuing
release of oil into the Persian Gulf waters, footage of the oil-
slicked birds on the screen; Hussein had apparently ordered
this environmental act of terrorism, according to the agitated
reporter. Then the screen blinked, and a disembodied male
voice began giving news from Bagdad; Helen recognized
Curtis�s voice instantly, and couldn�t keep from smiling at his
having attained his objective.

The news bulletin ended, and Helen sat watching a sudsy soap
opera, two women involved in a bickering argument, their
shouts too much for her. She flicked off the TV, and then
looked at her word processor -- why not just run through what
she�d accomplished?

She did so, and the afternoon flew by in a rush as she studied
what had already taken shape, the theme now more pronounced
and volatile. She made a few corrections, a few tentative
sketches for the next chapters and finally stopped, seeing the
windows dimmed by twilight.

While it grew darker, she went to get the rugs and quilts,
brought them inside and placed it all as before. She was
wondering what to have for a meal when there was a knock on
the door.

Before she got to it, the front screen was pulled back, and the
door slowly opened to reveal Kent, his hat tilted down, his
bearded face shadowed. Helen hurried to him, said, �I didn't
know if you'd return."

�Didn�t I promise to come back tonight?� He slipped inside,
stood with his back to the door, filling the whole room with his
tobacco scent, his maleness.

�Yes...but...I...� She paused, said, �What would you like for a
meal?�

He took off his hat, held it in his hands and moved to the sofa,
said gruffly, �That�s something I miss, a woman�s home-cooking,
food, and...�

�You mean you don�t have to eat over there?� She was
incredulous, almost laughing aloud. Surely he was joking!

�There�s no food, no sex, no...well none of the richer, more
physical sensations of pleasure. We live on...well, for lack of a
better definition, light.�

Now she did laugh, and laugh and laugh; in fact, Helen found
herself hysterically laughing, bending over, hurting with
unending laughter until tears began rolling down her face, her
voice shrieking, uncontrollable and wildly insane laughing.

Kent took her to the sofa, eased her down and began talking in
a soothing tone: �Hey, take it easy. I�m here, everything is
going to be fine. Look, I�m real...touch me.�

Sobbing, gulping and then hiccupping, Helen reached to feel his
hands, the calluses now familiar. She moved her hand to his soft
beard, traced his lips, said, �I�m nutty as a fruitcake!�
Laughter bubbling up, her trying to squelch it to no avail.

He took firm hold of her shoulders, said, �Look at me, Helen.
Look into my eyes.�

She did, and was drawn down, down, diving into those gray orbs
of entrancement, falling, falling in freeflight to the depth of
his being....feeling calm, quieter now, going down, down and
becoming whole with him.

Kent lay her gently onto the sofa, stood and went to prepare
them a meal. He found food in the fridge, ham and cheese,
bacon, sausage and eggs for an omelet. He�d never used an
electric range, but it wasn�t difficult to figure out; he sizzled
the food, a delicious aroma filling the house.

When he snapped his fingers in front of Helen, she awoke
refreshed, followed him to the table, sat in the ladderback
chair and ate as he watched, his own appetite hardy. As he
sipped coffee, she asked, �Kent...about the book?�

�Yes, I�ll help you, after we finish our meal.�

�I can�t write that supernatural/religious angle, can�t!� She
folded her napkin, wiped her mouth and announced, �I�m leaving
tomorrow. I�ve had enough of this weird place.�

�Please Helen, I...this is important. We need to get out a
message, especially now with the Middle East in such turmoil,
the people need hope, faith and...�

�Oh, do you really think that will help people? Religion has
done more harm than good, in my opinion. Why, just think of all
the fighting, the endless bickering about it! Different
interpretations of scripture, killings in the name of holiness....�

He grimaced, explained, �I thought I made it clear this
happened because of our language barriers and human flaws.�

Helen shook her head. �Besides, I am trying to further
goodness by showing human intellect is strong enough to
overcome any obstacles mankind faces. Just because I don�t
believe in God, doesn�t mean I�m a hedonist, an evil person. I
believe in US, the human ability to survive and be kind, good
and eventually free ourselves from being slaves to religious
Gods, ritualized dogmas."

He stood, scraping the chair on the pine floor. His eyes
clouded, but he said softly, �And that�s your final word, you
won�t listen to what we have to share with the world through
you?�

This was his worst dread, that he couldn�t convince her. He
wasn�t allowed to carry out his mission through fear or force,
rather through gentleness and coaxing, caring -- even using
romance, which he had at first found successful, but now
realized he�d become too involved, no longer objective, only a
man helplessly in love and desperate. A complete hypnotic
conversion would never work with someone as strong-willed as
her either.

She stubbornly continued to shake her head, feeling she was
denying a madness within her, shaking off a delusion,
confronting her own psychosis. And yet her heart ached, ached
with unbearable loss, fear of losing him... But she told herself
he wasn�t real!

�No matter what you tell yourself, Helen, I AM real, and here
with you at this moment. Would you be more receptive if I told
you I was from another galaxy, an alien transformed into
Kent�s shape to be presentable, alluring to you?�

Helen closed her eyes, held them tightly together. �Go, leave
here. You are only in my mind.�

He pushed the chair underneath the table, walked to her and
lifted her face with his hand, forced her to open her eyes by
saying, �And when we made love, was that not real?�

She looked at him steadily, gasping, �Yes...oh it felt so real,
so...beautiful.�

�And if I told you you would be pregnant by me, what then if it
proved true?�

She quickly replied, �That is impossible.�

He took her by the arms, lifted her to her feet, began kissing
her tenderly. �And this, is this all in your mind?�

Helen went weak, her legs bending at the knees, her face
flushing, her body responding independent of her mind. She
felt him lifting her, carrying her to the bedroom, his throaty
voice rasping, �Woman, I am in love with you, risking my
existence to be with you...and...so help me, Helen, you have to
believe in me, listen to me. I�ll make you, I�ll make you love me!�

As he lay her on the bed, stripping off her clothes, then his and
lowering himself onto her body she said helplessly, �I do love
you Kent...but...I...oh, I don�t know if I, if you...if this
dangerous togetherness is real or all in my mind because I�m so
lonely.�

He whispered in her ear, �You can�t deny the reality of us, so
stop trying. Just give in, be here and now, let it be good for us,
for the moment.�

Helen surrendered, whether to fantasy or to a real man, a lover
she�d conjured, or an alien, a time-traveler from another
dimension...it didn�t matter. She felt alive, richly rewarded
with love...and gave herself willingly.

              End Chapter Eleven
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

               Chapter Twelve

Helen awoke to a foggy Saturday morning; light was muted
through the windows, drapes still open. She got out of bed, felt
dizzy and confused -- then it came back to her, the night of
lovemaking...or was it all in her mind/imagination?

She stood motionless, running her fingers through tangled hair,
then peering in a dresser mirror. She appeared wasted, her
body thinner than usual, her face pallid and eyes sunken. Her
gown was wrinkled and splotched with sweat; she felt in need
of a brisk, enlivening shower.

Later she made a quick decision, putting on makeup, getting out
a nice woolen dress, matching pumps, and dressing fast. Helen
didn�t bother to clean the bedroom, nor even make the bed. She
simply needed to get away from the place, and hurried to toss a
few clothes in an overnight bag, gather up toiletries and then
survey the house for Leo. The cat was not indoors, so she gave
a last look around, made sure the lights were off, the fireplace
cold and then locked the doors behind her as she stepped out
onto the front porch.

She called Leo several times, but decided the cat could fend
for itself; she probably would only be gone for the weekend
anyway. Hurrying to her Cadillac, she felt like a sneak, but
knew that was ridiculous, so she forced herself to remain calm,
toss the bag in her trunk and then get in the car, start it and
drive slowly away.

The fog was heavy as she drove downhill, the car gliding
through hazy whiteness, her eyes carefully scanning the sharp
curves, then trying to determine direction. She felt nervous,
and was relieved as the fog began to clear the lower she
descended, the mountaintop having been saturated. The farther
she went, the clearer it became, and she could actually see the
ramshackle house in the valley below, unable to keep from
glancing at it in the distance.

It was, as usual, deserted and forlorn in the morning stillness;
she found herself pulling over, and parking on a shoulder,
staring down at the place. Why did it attract her attention?
From the first, she�d been undeniably drawn to the abandoned
property, and now had a sudden stab of remorse. Had Kent
McCord lived there, been happy with his wife and child...or
not? Then it occurred to her that surely someone in this region
would remember the McCords or know about the abandoned
dwelling!

Helen drove off, wondering if she could confirm Kent�s past
existence through others here or research at the nearest local
newspaper and/or library? Impulsively, she headed for the
small TV repair shop where she�d purchased her set � maybe
the owner could tell her something about Kent? She drove
through the quaint, modest-sized town, found the shop easily.

As Helen walked up to the door, she was met by Jack. He
smiled, said, �Helen March, right?�

She returned his friendly smile. �Yes, I�m surprised you
remembered me, I was only in once.�

He grinned. �Well you did buy a new color set, and that�s worth
remembering.�

Helen liked his attitude and looked him over; he was a short,
stout man, balding and well past fifty -- but he had a flair for
down-home friendliness. She asked, �I was hoping you could
help me again.�

�Sure, what you need? I got VCR's, and...�

�No,� she interrupted, moving inside the cluttered shop,
standing a few feet from him. �I was wondering about local
history, and remembered you knew the Hansons.�

�Everybody hereabouts knowed �em, they�s curious folks, or
leastways got to be funny.� He closed the door, came nearer
and asked, �Care to sit a spell?�

Helen accepted the chair he offered, sat and then watched him
pull up another chair, straddle it backwards and drop down,
staring questioningly at her.

�You see, I�m a writer...� she began.

�Is that a fact? We�s wondering why you�s stuck up there alone
on Cider Mountain...�

Helen couldn�t hide her surprise, and blurted, �You mean others
know I�m there?�

�No offense ma�am, but this is a close-knit community,
everybody knows everybody, no secrets hereabouts.� He leaned
forward, said seriously, �But ain�t no call to worry.We mind our
business, don�t be coming round to bother you.�

Helen smiled. �I appreciate your, uh, understanding; I do need
privacy for my work. But anyhow, about the area... Could you
tell me who used to live in that old ramshackle house near
Whiskey Creek, down in the valley?�

�Ma�am no one lives there...ain�t in a long time.� He took a pouch
of Redman tobacco out of his shirt pocket, got out a chew and
placed it in his mouth. �If�n you a mind to, there�s old Doc
Savoy, he can tell you more. You writin history, stuff like that
about us?�

�Well no, not exactly.� She felt he�d be offended by what she
was really writing, atheistic material being blasphemous to
Christians, knowing he was one by the sign in the window that
read: Abortion Isn't The Answer, Jesus Is. "Actually I was
just curious, since I saw the place.�

�All I know, it�s talked about among folks. Say the whole place
has got haints, spooks. I don�t hold with that talk, myself, but
some said they�s seen...strange doings.�

�Like what?� She clutched her hands together, trying to keep
them from fidgeting.

�Just spooky stories, folks hereabouts likes them stories. I
guess it was expected, being as old Doc Savoy witnessed the
drownings at Whiskey Creek hisself. He�s in his nineties, gettin
senile, but...well, folks still like hearing his tales. He says that
when all three McCords drowned in the creek, they�s strange
happenings later on the mountain...�

She gasped, �All three drowned? Kent too?�

"How'd you know about Kent? I never mentioned his name.�

�Oh, I...uh I believe the owner, Jordan, who lent me the house
on the mountain, mentioned Kent�s name.� She felt her face
flame, and looked away from his piercing gaze.

�Ma�am, all I know is the Doc, and folks hereabouts say all
three drowned -- Kent, his wife and little girl. When he was
trying to save them, he drowned too. Real sad, them all dying
like that, a real tragedy. Guess that�s why spooky stories
sprung up about it, huh?�

Helen grimaced, looked back at his face and said, �Yes, I
suppose that kind of tragedy would give rise to tall tales, and
supernatural legends.�

�That what you writin about, folk tales, haints and the likes in
these parts? Cause if�n you are, we got plenty of �em. Just
about everybody has one to tell.�

�No, not exactly...�

�You take the McCord stories, there�s all that stuff Mert and
Mavis told about seeing haints, specially Kent, and Mavis even
claimed to have painted him. But I saw the picture. She weren�t
no artist to begin with.� He paused, chuckled softly and then
continued, �But here�s she supposed to painted this haint, and
he�s walking away from her, can�t see his face!�

Helen nodded, said, �I saw it, the painting I mean. Jordan kept
it, hung it over the mantle.�

He chuckled again, then sobered. �Mavis tried to explain the
stuff this ghost of Kent told her, but it was all mixed up, crazy
stuff. Thought the old gal would wind up in the crazy house
down in Tuscaloosa, but poor Mert, he hung in there, tried to
handle her problems.�

Helen felt a chill prickling of her skin; even this hillbilly was
smart enough to recognize a psychosis in someone! If they�d
threatened Mavis with an institution, wouldn�t she be just as
likely to receive that treatment, more particularly among
educated, rational people in her life?

He was studying her silently, chewing the tobacco, spitting in a
can he lifted off a shelf, and then asking, �So why you want to
know about the McCords?�

Helen stood, stuck out her hand to shake his. �You�ve been a big
help, I was just curious about the property. You know, if it
might be for sale?�

He shook her hand, then scratched his head, puzzled. �Now
that�s something I ain�t sure about. They�s no McCord relatives
hereabouts.� He stood, went behind a counter and pulled out a
telephone book, ran a finger down a page and gave her a
number to call. �That�s the real estate owns the property. Don�t
think they had any buyers from around here, cause of the haint
tales.�

Helen took out a pad from her purse, jotted down the number
and said, �Thanks a million; I�ll give them a call. And it�s been
pleasant chatting with you.�

�Sure thing ma�am, you come again, hear?� He walked to the
door, held it open for her, watched as she went to the Cadillac
and drove away, shaking his head with puzzlement.

                         *  *  *  *  *  *

Helen drove to Birmingham, her thoughts convoluted with the
information she�d learned. Obviously there was at one time a
Kent McCord living in that house; but he and his family had all
perished at the same time. What could that mean, regarding her
experiences? Was it a kind of ESP, telepathy, receiving
information from the past deaths via paranormal means?

Her reason rejected that idea, but the fact the man had at one
time existed, lived in that very house...that she�d never heard
of him, except through these odd occurrences...it meant this
was NOT entirely delusional. The past reality of something
occurring outside herself, that was REAL, and it stunned her to
realize that fact.

As she entered the city, Helen was glad to see traffic, the
busy streets, people walking along the sidewalks, her need of
�normal� life absolutely imperative. But then she suddenly
remembered the photo film, and drove to the photomat.
Fortunately, the film had not been mailed, so she paid for it
and then went directly to her apartment and, once inside,
pulled out the pictures. Studying the photos one by one, she
was stunned to see that only a vague smoky image of Kent
showed in the field. The shadowy shape was definitely of Kent,
or at least, a male image that suited his appearance.

This was not the kind of proof she'd wanted, but it was better
than nothing at all. Tired now, she kicked off her pumps,
feeling a need to try and relax, be at ease in her own familiar
environment.

She flicked on the TV, caught the latest Gulf War update,
hearing that President Bush hadn�t yet given the order for the
ground assault into Kuwait, the air war still underway and
being successful for the present. One news commentator said
that Hussein�s 'Mother Of All Battles' had yet to strike back
significantly with Iraqi planes; that many were flying to Iran,
which in itself was suspicious...

She was tired, but ordered a pizza and then put on
comfortable jeans while waiting for it to be delivered. She
called Jordan, chatted and they made a date for dinner Sunday
night.

When the pizza came, she ate while thinking about Kent. Why
had he told her that suicidal story, not taking credit for trying
to save his family? Wasn�t that ultimately more heroic than
suicide? Then it dawned on her that this was crazy --
attempting to figure out what was obviously a delusional
pattern of thought!

Helen finally decided to go shopping, put on a denim jacket and
started to the door, but had a peculiar prickle along her spine.
She turned around and saw Kent standing there, grinning and
asking, �Does this satisfy you? Will you believe me now?�

Helen dropped her purse, slumped to the floor, the room going
dark as she fainted.

                End Chapter Twelve
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^



       Chapter Thirteen

When Helen came to, she was staring into Kent's face, unsmiling
and serious. He said sternly, "Woman, you must believe. It is
the only way. I...shouldn't have come here, but doing so, I think
you shall for once and all follow willingly."

She blinked, trying to focus on her apartment. It was all the
same, the trendy furnishings, the austere chrome-and-glass,
simple black-and-white lines, smooth, sophisticated but
somehow cold, barren. "Kent...I...just don't know. But answer
me this, why didn't you admit you died saving your family?"

"Because I didn't die. I went over to the other dimension, and
yes, it was while trying to save them, my wife and child, but...I
just felt you would be more skeptical if I made myself out to
be a hero. And what I told you about the misty photos was
true: I had developed those before my family drowned, and the
people of the community did think I was crazy, because I'd
always felt an uncanny connection to the creek. I was taken
for a reason, we all are. In my case, I had the necessary open-
mindedness and discovery of a right location for an entry port.
There are only a few places on earth that give access to the
doorways, usually connected to mysterious disappearances
through the centuries. I don't have to tell you about it, since
most are common knowledge, although inaccurately described
by humans. We, on the other side, must be cautious and not
abuse the entry; when a human is chosen, it is for definite
purposes.

"I was also commanded to keep a vigil for one such as you.
They hoped someone like you would come into our orbit,
eventually. And ever since humans discovered electrical
technology, not to mention recent advances in electronics, the
avenue of that connection has been available, but only within
our range of a doorway."

She inquired, "Then how are you here? And why not take
Jordan, he is a very intelligent man."

"Because he is grounded in this dimension, has a family, loved
ones he'd be miserable without. Taking me was an example of
how one will grieve when separated from loved ones."

He stood, paced around and advised, "Being here is risking my
very existence, and only through the intensely close telepathic
connection I've already established with you am I able to be
seen. In essence, I'm more in your mind than really standing
here...and no one else could see me. This is highly experimental,
dangerous even, but I asked to try it. However, I can only be
effective for a short time. Helen, this is my last chance � if I
fail to convince you to be our messenger, then I must leave you
forever."

Helen wanted to tell him to go. She wanted to believe if she
told this phantom to leave, she'd be sane and stable again --
but there was the intuitive knowing, the feeling that this was
her destiny. She whispered, "I may agree, write the book you
wish, and...if I do so, then can we be together?"

He rushed to her, sat down and caressed her face, touched her
lips and face. "Yes, you may come to the other side, if YOU
wish. But it has to be YOUR wish, not mine alone. Only a few,
very few are allowed the choice to come over to our dimension
permanently. Most visionaries receive enlightenment, leave
their message for mankind, die and never know of the other
side. I petitioned for you to cross over, because I love you
Helen, but the question is, do you love me enough?"

Remembering Curtis, Helen had a pang of regret; but then she
knew that he was really no longer part of her life, had his own
individual destiny to follow. They were legally divorced; her
parents were dead, gone -- she was entirely without close,
loving relationships and had been for some time. If she stayed
here, wouldn't it be more of the lonely isolation she'd imposed
on herself? Might not the other side be more worthwhile?

Reading her thoughts, Kent grinned, bent to kiss her and said,
"Yes, it is worthwhile there...different, but wonderful. We
cannot have a physical body, but the rewards abound in many
other respects. Our form is insubstantial, but we will be mates
for eternity. And with your talent for communication in several
languages, your background education in math and science, your
knowledge of human psychology, mythology, religion and
pragmatic application of realism, interpreting past history and
possible future cultural changes, we may be able to reach
multitudes down through the coming generations."

She realized that somehow Kent (or more likely those of the
other side) had done research on her, were fully aware of all
her potential --  something she decided must have happened
through their probing into her mind telepathically.

He tenderly touched her face, murmured, "Yes, we know all
about you. We want you with us on the other side."

Helen felt like she'd been transformed. She glowed warmly,
and strangely had no sexual desire even though Kent was close
to her, reaching out his arms. She said, "I'll phone Jordan, tell
him I'm returning tomorrow morning to the house."

Kent gave her a soft kiss, then stared at her for a long moment.
"You have tonight alone, to think privately, so be sure it is
what you want. Once you cross over, you are there forever.
You may return here briefly, but only to help the cause
through paranormal contact with humans. What I experienced
with you, the pleasures of the flesh, that was very wrong,
forbidden. In fact, it was considered by a council and I was
found forgiven, as I'd lost my wife and child, the grief having
plagued me these many years until now, until YOU."

"I'm sure Kent. I have nothing left in this world, and I always
wanted to help humanity. Maybe I can better do it from that
sphere, help influence mankind even if it's through
supernatural means, something they want to believe in."

He was smiling as she watched him literally evaporate in front
of her eyes, and she marveled at what might be ahead for her.
Yes, there might be moments of doubt until she actually
crossed over, but with Kent's strength and guidance, she felt
sure she would go willingly when the time arrived.

                        *  *  *  *  *  *

Once back on Cider Mountain, Helen and Kent worked
diligently to produce a perfect manuscript. It was hard work,
very few breaks, only to eat and keep updated on the Gulf
War. When that ended with a cease-fire on February 28th,
and she witnessed the victorious USA military leaders, the
liberation of Kuwait, an exultant President Bush and the
relieved, proud returning soldiers in early March, Helen asked
Kent if it meant eventual peace in the Middle East. He told her
that was unable to be known, but perhaps from the other side,
they both could work for that to happen someday.

He explained that one day scientist would conquer the
time/space factor, enter the other side -- and it was hoped
that by then mankind would have overcome their primitive
origins of aggressive violence, learn better survival skills,
peaceful means of settling differences and disputes. If not,
then humans had the disturbing potential to destroy all the
peaceful grace by which the inhabitants of their dimension
lived. That was partially why death was a necessity at this
point: humans, able to become immortal, would foster a hostile,
chaotic pattern, not unlike the current situation they seemed to
prefer.

Almost emphasizing this point, early April brought news
reports that in media-conducted surveys, most Americans
missed the war; they'd become addicted to the daily
excitement of danger, the sense of euphoria created by winning
constant battles, and the bonding of people drawn together for
a single purpose. Helen listened, appalled it took war to rally
human closeness, worried that it would never be possible to
bring the whole of humanity to enjoy peace and graceful
acceptance of serene living, that it was inherently human to
desire conflict, danger and violence.

During their discussions of the work, Helen asked if there was
a God? Kent couldn't answer, as he told her those on the other
side did not know. All he'd been allowed to understand was
that a possibility existed of yet other simultaneous dimensions,
none of which could be entered by them except this one. In
fact, he explained patiently that a primary reason humans were
brought over was that the insubstantial forms of those there
could only manifest here as a light, a smoky substance....until
they mastered the art of securing animals, then humans into
that sphere. Now, they'd gotten precise enough to allow
transformed humans to go and come between the dimensions, so
long as they did their bidding.

At this Helen exclaimed "You mean Leo?"

"Yes," he said, "Leo is from the other side. He comes to keep
watch, his vision transmitted to them so they may be aware of
certain activity here. And there is much to learn, the archaic
language still in use by them, very inappropriate now. Also,
sometimes their attempts to plant mental suggestions in humans
doesn't work, instead causing madness, evil/negative
repercussions, or dire psychological consequences. Maybe you
will be able to help us, as you are clearly intelligent and
educated in modern methods of psychology?"

She thought she understood some of the unexplained mental
illnesses now, even the horrible destructiveness of
schizophrenic delusions. Once the other side managed contact,
perhaps the human misinterpreted the information. Yes, she
told him, she hoped to help the other side become familiar with
humans, and how they could be subtly influenced for the
betterment of all.

Kent then confirmed that humans had misconstrued contact
from that dimension sometimes as aliens, ghosts, supernatural
aura, even mistakenly thinking their long-dead loved ones were
appearing to them, when in fact the smoky substances, fleeting
images were only misinterpreted phenomenon.

When Helen probed about the origins of the other side, if it
had always existed alongside ours, or if it had been developed
at the time of human evolution, Kent declined to provide
answers, saying only that such arcane knowledge was not
permitted to be discussed now, but that once she was part of
the other dimension, a council would educate her, provide
answers to all her inquiries.

By the end of April, Helen sent the manuscript to the spiritual
foundation in New York. Kent told her they would be receptive
to the work and locate a publisher. She mailed it off from the
nearest small town post office, no return address...all proceeds
from sales to be contributed to various charities throughout
the world.

It was an early day in May when they went down the wooded
path to Whiskey Creek. Wildflowers blossomed, the trees were
budding with new life and a wonderland unfolded as they
walked, hand in hand, to their destination.

Once on the creekbank, Kent turned to her and asked again,
"Are you sure, Helen?"

She nodded, suddenly overwhelmed at what she was about to do
-- leave her only connection to this world on earth. Would she
regret it at some later time? What if she arrived there, and
found it impossible to exist in such a realm without a physical
body, physical sensations?

Staring at Kent, she asked, "What if..." She pulled away from
him slightly, standing alone and staring off into the woods.

He said softly, "I know you have doubts, but only by being in
our realm can you use all the incredible knowledge and wisdom
that will benefit others. It IS a sacrifice in many ways, but
there are wondrous rewards."

Then as she looked toward the creek, watching the bubbling,
gurgling water reflecting sunlight, she saw a misty vapor begin
to materialize...as it wafted upward, becoming brighter and
brighter, she suddenly felt the most intense warmth, welcoming
warmth and love...as if looking into infinity, getting a glimpse
of an all-embracing love and acceptance that touched her
heart, her soul...

Kent whispered, "Now is the time, take my hand and we'll go
together."

Helen put her hand in his, but found that she was already
moving toward the brilliant light, feeling drawn to the mystical
illumination of rapturous, glowing warmth and love beckoning
them to enter. End Chapter Thirteen
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
News Article January
5, 2,000

Unsolved Mystery Almost Decade Old

Helen March, author of the worldwide best-selling book,
"Between The Dark And Light" has not been found since her
mysterious disappearance in May 1991. Publishers are still
seeking any leads in her whereabouts. Sources at a New York
spiritual foundation told reporters March sent in her
manuscript to their organization, left no forwarding address
but enclosed a prepared legal contract for all profits to be
divided among charities worldwide.

Law enforcement officials from the small town in Alabama
where March had been staying at a friend's isolated home, said
the woman had seemingly vanished into thin air. They had been
called in, according to a spokesman for the Sheriff's
Department, at the request of her former editor at "The
Realist" magazine, Jordan Porter. When March failed to
contact him, he went to his home on Cider Mountain which he'd
loaned to her for seclusion to write.

Porter said there was no sign of March; her belongings were
there, her word processor and rough drafts of the atheistic
book she'd been contracted to produce, but the woman was
gone. Additionally, Porter discovered photos March had left
behind. Several pictures showed a vaporous smoky image of a
male figure standing in Whiskey Creek Valley. Lab technicians
have been unable to analyze the smoky substance, but local
historians commented the image resembled a long-ago resident
of Whiskey Creek, Kent McCord who perished in a drowning at
that creek around 1896.

After the phenomenal success of her book, reporters
questioned the residents of the small town in Alabama about
March's disappearance. One shop owner, Jack Rodale,
commented he'd sold her a TV and talked with the woman. He
indicated she wanted to buy property near the mountain, but
he thought she, "was interested in haints and ghost stories
about Cider Mountain." When informed March had been an
avowed atheist, he said, "I just figured her for a nosy writer,
not a Communist. How come she wrote that spiritual book
then?"

That seemed to be the question of friends and acquaintances of
March. Everyone interviewed agreed it was unlike her to have
written a book with such overwhelming spiritual significance, a
book even acclaimed by diversely opposed religions as bearing
profound truths, and a guide for mankind's ultimate unity in
peaceful solutions to differing theological doctrines, as well as
a rare blending of Eastern and Western spiritual philosophy.
Jordan Porter said, "Helen was a wonderful woman, but from
our last conversation, I felt she had been having emotional
difficulties. Maybe not, but this work was definitely not a
product of her rational, skeptical thinking."

March's former husband, Curtis Mann, an esteemed news
anchor at CNN, said, "Helen had been under tremendous strain.
The last time I saw her was during the Gulf War, and she had
mentioned some odd occurrences at Cider Mountain. It is my
opinion that someone was trying to run her off, or drive her to
a mental breakdown. As for the book, I don't think Helen
wrote it. Perhaps someone coerced her into helping them write
it, but the work itself is not from the Helen I knew. In fact, I
fear she may have been abducted, murdered after her
usefulness as a writer had been exhausted."

A psychiatrist March had consulted, Dr. Harmon Ansel, said,
"Helen was obviously the victim of an insidious psychosis and
having read her book, it seems to be the product of a
delusional experience, something she wrote while in an altered
state of consciousness. I'd never counseled her for anything
except grief after her parents death. The last session I had
with her, however, was due to an apparent panic attack while
she was alone on Cider Mountain. I advised her to abandon the
isolation, come back to the city."

Worldwide UFO experts contributed their interpretation,
saying through a spokesperson that March was obviously taken
aboard an alien craft and given the messages for her book.

Worldwide religious leaders unanimously declared March the
most profound example of a conversion to God, her atheistic
principles having failed her, and the spiritual wisdom coming to
her through Divine intervention.

Many widely-known psychics have traveled to Cider Mountain
and they report that the region is alive with paranormal
phenomenon, perhaps the means through which March received
her inspiration for the book. They refer to the peculiar hazy
male image in March's photos as conclusive proof.

Whatever the reason for March's book, it has been hailed
worldwide as prophetic and a lasting tribute to the spiritual
wisdom of a woman who perhaps no one will ever be able to
locate. Whether she is alive and wants to remain anonymous, or
a kidnap/murder victim, or simply a profoundly gifted sage for
the new millennium remains for the readers of her book to
determine for themselves.

                                    �The End�

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